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Title: The Comic Almanack, Volume 1 (of 2) - An Ephemeris in Jest and Earnest, Containing Merry Tales, - Humerous Poetry, Quips, and Oddities
Author: Various
Language: English
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Internet Archive)



                                  THE

                            COMIC ALMANACK.

                         1ST SERIES, 1835-1843.



                               _NOTICE._


A SECOND SERIES of "_THE COMIC ALMANACK_," embracing the years 1844—53,
a ten years' gathering of the BEST HUMOUR, the WITTIEST SAYINGS, the
Drollest Quips, and the Best Things of THACKERAY, MAYHEW, ALBERT SMITH,
A'BECKETT, ROBERT BROUGH, with nearly one thousand Woodcuts and Steel
Engravings by the inimitable CRUIKSHANK, HINE, LANDELLS—

     may also be had of the Publishers of this volume, and uniform
              with it, nearly 600 pages, price 7_s._ 6_d._

[Illustration:

  The Cold Water Cure
]



                                  THE
                             COMIC ALMANACK
              AN EPHEMERIS IN JEST AND EARNEST, CONTAINING
                     MERRY TALES, HUMOROUS POETRY,
                          QUIPS, AND ODDITIES.


                                   BY

              THACKERAY, ALBERT SMITH, GILBERT A. BECKETT,
                          THE BROTHERS MAYHEW.

[Illustration:

  "FULL INSIDE, SIR, BUT PLENTY OF ROOM ON THE ROOF."
]

                   =With many Hundred Illustrations=

                          BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK

                           AND OTHER ARTISTS.

                       _FIRST SERIES, 1835-1843._

                               =London:=

                     CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY.



                                CONTENTS


                      NOTICE
                      PRELIMINARY
                      THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1835.
                      THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1836.
                      THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1837.
                      THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1838.
                      THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1839.
                      THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1840.
                      THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1841.
                      THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1842.
                      THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1843.



                              PRELIMINARY


THE "Comic Almanacks" of George Cruikshank have long been regarded by
admirers of this inimitable artist as among his finest, most
characteristic productions. Extending over a period of nineteen years,
from 1835 to 1853, inclusive, they embrace the best period of his
artistic career, and show the varied excellences of his marvellous
power.

The late Mr. Tilt, of Fleet Street, first conceived the idea of the
"Comic Almanack," and at various times there were engaged upon it such
writers as Thackeray, Albert Smith, the Brothers Mayhew, the late Robert
Brough, Gilbert A'Beckett, and it has been asserted, Tom Hood, the
elder. Thackeray's stories of "Stubbs' Calendar, or the Fatal Boots,"
which subsequently appeared as "Stubbs' Diary;" and "Barber Cox, or the
Cutting of his Comb," formed the leading attractions in the numbers for
1839 and 1840. The Almanack was published at 2_s._ 6_d._, but in 1848-9
the size was reduced and the price altered to 1_s._ The change did not
produce the increased circulation expected, and in 1850 it was again
enlarged and published at 2_s._ 6_d._ In this year some very spiritedly
designed folding plates were added, and this feature continued until
1853, when Mr. Tilt's partner, the late Mr. Bogue, thought proper to
discontinue the work.

For many years past, sets of the Almanack have been eagerly sought after
by collectors, and as much as 6_l._ and 7_l._ have been given for good
copies.



                                  THE
                             COMIC ALMANACK
                               FOR 1835.


                               PRELUDIUM.

  SCENE.—_An Apartment in the House of_ FRANCIS MOORE, _in which that
    renowned Physician and Astrologer is discovered, lying at the
    point of death_. _The_ NURSE _is holding up his head, while a
    skilful_ MEDICINER _is dispensing a potion_. _Sundry_ OLD WOMEN
    _surround his couch, in an agony of grief_. _The_ ASTROLOGER
    _starteth up in a paroxysm of rage_.

   _Moore._ "Throw physic to the dogs," I'll gulp no more.
   I'm done for: my prophetic life is o'er.
   Who are these hags? and wherefore come they here?

   _Old Women._ Alack! he raves, and knows us not, poor dear!
   To think he should his _only friends_ forget!
   Who've fostered him, and made him quite a pet.

   _Moore._ Begone, ye beldames! wherefore do ye howl?

   _Old Women._ We've come to comfort your unhappy sowl.

   _Nurse._ 'Tis the Old Women,—pr'ythee, do not scare 'em,—
   Who to the last have bought your VOX STELLARUM;
   They're sorely griev'd, and fear that you will die;
   And then, alack-a-day! who'll read the sky?

   _Moore._ Oh, ah!—yes—well,—just so—just so,
   I see—I feel—I smell—I know—I know.

   _Nurse._ Poor soul! he's going fast. Oh! shocking shock!
   So kind a master.... Bless me! there's a knock!

           _Enter_ RIGDUM FUNNIDOS, _in deep mourning_.

   _Rig. Fun._ "Ye black and midnight hags! what is't ye do?"

   _Nurse._ Speak softly, Sir; my master's turning blue.
   He's not been sensible since last November.

   _Rig. Fun._ (_aside_) Nor ever was, that I can e'er remember.
   But we must talk before his course is run.

   _Moore._ Who's that?—my sight grows dim—Is't RIGDUM FUN?

   _Rig. Fun._ The same, great MOORE!

   _Moore._ But, bless me! all in black!
   What! mourn a _living_ man! Alack! alack!

   _Rig. Fun._ I wear _prospective_ mourning, thus to shew
   The solemn grandeur of _prophetic woe_.

   _Moore._ The thought is _lively_, though the subject's _grave_;
   And, therefore, you my free forgiveness have.

   _Rig. Fun._ How can I serve you, ere you vanish hence?

   _Moore._ I wish you'd cut the throat of COMMON SENSE.
   To him I owe my death. That cruel wight
   Long on my hopes has cast a fatal blight.
   I knew I had receiv'd the mortal blow,
   When first he wounded me, six years ago;
   And every year the knave has stronger grown,
   While ev'ry year has sunk me lower down.

   _Rig. Fun._ I will avenge you;—nay, I'll go much further:
   The "Crowner's quest" shall find him guilty "Murther."
   The common hangman shall cut short his breath;
   And, by a shameful end, avenge _your_ death.

   _Moore._ 'Tis kindly said; and I in peace shall die.
   Say, is there aught that _you_ would ask of _I_?

   _Rig. Fun._ Oh, FRANCIS MOORE! who soon _no_ MORE wilt be;
   I came, a precious boon to beg of thee:—
     One gracious favour, ere you breathe your last,—
   _On_ ME _your Prophet's mantle deign to cast!_
   Let _me_ be raised to your deserted throne,
   And call your countless subjects all my own.
   Then let the mirth, they levell'd once at thee,
   Fall, if it will, with tenfold force on me.
   If all will laugh at _me_, who laugh'd at _you_,
   The frowns of fortune I no more shall rue;
   Nay, with such temper would I bear their jeers,
   I could endure them for a hundred years.

   _Moore._ Life's ebbing fast; my sands are nearly run;
   But you shall have what you request, my son!
   Now, sit you down, and write what I shall say,—
   The last bright glimmerings of the taper's ray.
   I'll shew you how to pen those strains so well,
   Of which the meaning no one e'er could tell.
   Send forth the women;—draw a little nigher;
   My brain is heating with prophetic fire.

   _Rig. Fun._ Matrons, abscond! (_They depart glumpishly; carrying
   off the Mediciner._) Now, Dad, I'm all attention,
   To learn the wisdom that's past comprehension.

   _Moore._ "The fiery Mars with furious fury rages."

   _Rig. Fun._ I've penn'd that down, most erudite of sages!

   _Moore._ "The Dog-star kindles with inflaming ire."

   _Rig. Fun._ Just wait a moment, while I stir the fire.

   _Moore._ "Terrific portents flame along the sky;
   "I know the cause,—but dare not mention why."

   _Rig. Fun._ (_aside_) Which shews your prophecying's all my eye.

   _Moore._ "The planets are the book in which I read,—"

   _Rig. Fun._ I'm very glad to hear that you succeed.
   You've better luck than when you went to school;
   For there, I guess, they perch'd you on a stool.

   _Moore._ I read this solemn truth, as in a glass,—
   'Whate'er will happen's sure to come to pass;'
   "And if it don't, why 'set me down an ass.'"

   _Rig. Fun._ That's done already; for to me 'twas plain,
   An ass you were, and ever would remain.

   _Moore._ Avaunt! I'll speak no more to ears profane.

  [_The scene openeth, and discovereth the Shade of the great
    Astrologer_, LILLY, _enveloped in a fog, who claspeth_ FRANCIS
    MOORE _in his arms, and mizzleth off with him in a mist_.—_N.B.
    The renowned_ PHYSICIAN _droppeth his threadbare mantle, which
    falleth on_ RIGDUM FUNNIDOS, _who maketh his exit therewith
    joyfully_.

 ┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┐
 │                        JANUARY.                        │      [1835.│
 ├─────────────┬──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┤
 │             │When you first go to bathe, gentle Sir, in a river,    │
 │             │If you dip in one foot, it will give you a shiver;     │
 │             │But if you've the pluck to plunge in your whole body,  │
 │             │You'll not shiver at all, you poor timid noddy!        │
 │             │Just so with my rhymes,—I've got thro' my first        │
 │             │  trouble:                                             │
 │             │Had I stood shilly-shally, my toil had been double.    │
 ├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │ M│ Season's │              =Odd Matters.=              │  WEATHER.  │
 │ D│  Signs.  │                                          │            │
 ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│toes      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 2│nose      │         COMFORTS OF THE SEASON.          │  Weather   │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 3│froze     │Chilblains sore on all your toes,         │   likely   │
 │  │          │Icicles hang from your nose               │            │
 │ 4│blue      │Rheumatis' in all your limbs;             │  ☍ ☌ △ ♄   │
 │  │          │Noddle full of aches and whims;           │            │
 │ 5│who       │Chaps upon your hands and lips,           │   to be    │
 │  │          │And lumbago in your hips.                 │            │
 │ 6│you       │To your bed you shiv'ring creep,          │    cold    │
 │  │          │There to freeze, but not to sleep;        │            │
 │ 7│ice       │For the sheets, that look so nice,        │            │
 │  │          │Are to you two sheets of ice;             │  □ ♃ △ ♂   │
 │ 8│trice     │Wearied out, at length you doze,          │            │
 │  │          │And snatch, at last, a brief repose,      │     if     │
 │ 9│down      │Dream all night that you're a dab,        │            │
 │  │          │Lying on fishmonger's slab.               │            │
 │10│crown     │While indulging in a snore,               │ the frost  │
 │  │          │There comes a rap at chamber door;        │            │
 │11│folk      │Screaming voice of Betty cries:           │            │
 │  │          │"If you please, it's time to rise."       │   △ ⚹ ☉    │
 │12│joke      │Up you start, and, on the sheet,          │            │
 │  │          │Find your breath is chang'd to sleet;     │is very old:│
 │13│in        │Tow'rds the glass you turn your view,     │            │
 │  │          │Find your nose of purple hue,             │            │
 │14│grin      │Looking very like, I trow,                │ If no snow │
 │  │          │Beet-root in a field of snow.             │            │
 │15│out       │You would longer lie, but nay,            │ ☿ ♄ △ ♂ □  │
 │  │          │Time is come,—you must away.              │            │
 │16│shout     │Out you turn, with courage brave,         │            │
 │  │          │Slip on drawers,—and then to shave!       │   should   │
 │17│cram      │Seize the jug, and in a trice,            │            │
 │  │          │Find the water chang'd to ice:            │ chance to  │
 │18│ham       │Break the ice, and have to rue            │            │
 │  │          │That you've broke the pitcher too.        │    fall    │
 │19│jam       │Water would not run before;               │            │
 │  │          │Now, it streams upon the floor,           │            │
 │20│dram      │Threat'ning with a fearful doom,          │  □ ☌ ⚹ ☉   │
 │  │          │Ceiling of the drawing-room.              │            │
 │21│twelfth   │In the frenzy of despair,                 │            │
 │  │          │You seize you don't know what, nor care,  │    then    │
 │22│night     │Mop up all the wet and dirt,              │            │
 │  │          │And find you've done it with your shirt;  │  perhaps   │
 │23│bright    │Your _only_ shirt,—all filth and slosh,—  │            │
 │  │          │_For all the rest are in the wash._       │            │
 │24│sight     │Into bed you turn again,                  │ ☿ △ ♂ ☉ ⚹  │
 │  │          │Ring the bell with might and main,        │            │
 │25│bake      │Stammer out to Betty, why                 │    □ ♄     │
 │  │          │'Twixt the sheets you're forc'd to lie,   │            │
 │26│cake      │'Till, pitying your feelings hurt,        │            │
 │  │          │She dabs you out another shirt.           │  no frost  │
 │27│nice      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │28│slice     │                                          │   ☉ □ △    │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │29│twice     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  at all.   │
 │30│quaff     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │31│laugh     │                                          │ ♃ △ ☍ □ ♂  │
 └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘

[Illustration:

  JANUARY.
]


                      ASS-TROLOGICAL PREDICTIONS.

I now proceed to put on my conjuring cap, and shew forth the wonders of
the stars.

On looking at the moon, through my 500-horse power telescope, which
magnifieth the planets 97,000,000 of times larger than life, I discern,
that the march of intellect hath already travelled to that luminary; for
I do distinctly perceive divers juveniles, of eighty years old and
upwards, seated on stools, with horn-books in their hands. The Man in
the Moon is also very busy, striving to metamorphose his sticks into
_brooms_, to sweep away the cobwebs of ignorance therewith. Moreover, I
do observe about half a million miles of cast-iron rail-road, in the
direction of the earth, by which I do opine an inclination towards this
planet. But there doth appear a great consternation amongst the other
constellations, more especially in the _Upper House_, where _Libra_ hath
got into fiery opposition with _Mars_; and _Saturn_ (who hath grown
_Grey_) hath, in striving to part them, lost the skirts of his coat, and
is glad to put up with a _Spencer_, whereby is clearly shadowed forth a
fierce encounter between two great commanders. Let those, who think
little of law and justice, read the 10,000 volumes of the Abridgment of
the Statutes, and tremble!

Touching the affairs of Europe _in general_, I can say nothing _in
particular_; excepting that I observe, that the Pope of Rome hath been
furiously dealing forth his anathemas,[1] wherein he doth betray a most
marvellous lack of wit; for doth he opine, that Christian folk are such
_calves_ as to be _cow'd_ by a _bull_? Verily, it toucheth me sore, to
note the silly doings of the crazy old beldame, who hath turned the
world topsy-turvy for so many centuries, when she might gather her
petticoats about her, and sit down in peace and quietness, by merely—my
old friend and gossip, _Poor Humphrey_, sagaciously observeth,—just
turning _Protestant_. And, in good sooth, when we come to think of it,
there need be no quarrellings and bickerings on religious grounds, nor
scruples for conscience' sake, in any part of the world, if all the
Pagans, Hindoos, Mahometans, Jews and folks of every religion, and of no
religion at all, were only just to make up their minds to do the same
thing. And, pray, let me ask, what can be a more simple piece of advice?

Footnote 1:

  The Abbé de la Mennais has roused the thunder of the Vatican by his
  _Paroles d'un Croyant_. The Pope has addressed an evangelical letter
  to the prelates of the Catholic world, in which the Abbé is compared
  with John Huss and Wickliff, and his Holiness says:—"We damn for ever
  this book of small size but huge depravity."—_Morning Post, June,
  1834._


                            THE GREAT COMET.

Though, touching Comets, Tycho Brahe, Kepler, Halley, Sir Isaac Newton,
and others of that stamp, do deny their malign influence on mundane
affairs, yet I, RIGDUM FUNNIDOS, holding in far greater reverence the
wisdom of our ancestors, and the sage opinion of my renowned defunct
predecessor, FRANCIS MOORE, do maintain, that they cast a sinister
aspect on this terrestrial globe; yea, and do mightily, in a most
adverse fashion, affect the same. Where-fore, I say, look, when the
_Great Comet_ cometh, for a sufficient reason, in the coming thereof,
for every thing which shall happen contrariwise; whether it be the
falling of kings, or the falling of stocks; the quarrels of nations, or
the squabbles of matrimony; the crash of empires, or the smash of
crockery; the tyranny of despots, or the scolding of wives:—yea, I do
say again, place them all to the account of the _Great Comet_.

                  *       *       *       *       *

Hereafter do follow sundry matters, both pleasant and profitable.


                      ADVERTISEMENT EXTRAORDINARY.

MATRIMONY.—A highly respectable Gentleman, who has, for many years,
distinguished himself as an important Public Functionary, is desirous of
_haltering_ his condition, and tying the _knot_ of wedlock with a Lady
of congenial sentiments. Having, himself, a very tender disposition, he
stipulates for the same on the part of the object of his attachment; and
as he is partial to _good spirits_, he hopes she will always have a
stock. She must be duly impressed with a regard for the dignity of her
husband's station, and must never associate with her inferiors, and
whatever _pledges_ she makes, she must be careful to _redeem_. The
Advertiser is not very particular as to personal attractions; and with
regard to money, he has seen so many people in a state of _dependence_,
that he merely trusts she will come provided against such an unpleasant
contingency. On these conditions, which are the _gaol_ of his wishes, he
will give the fair object of his affections her _full swing_, and be
perfectly _resigned to his fate_. He anxiously looks for a _line_,
addressed "JOHN KETCH, Esq., opposite the Debtors' Door, Old Bailey."

N.B. The _Schoolmaster in Newgate_, who drew up the above advertisement,
for his respected friend, Mr. Ketch, takes this opportunity of
contradicting a report, which has been current for some time past,—that
the Schoolmaster is _abroad_, which is quite _foreign_ from the fact.
Arrangements were certainly made to that effect, which, had they been
carried into execution, he would have been quite _transported_; but he
regrets to state, that he is under the necessity of remaining at his old
abode, the large stone house in the Old Bailey.

[Illustration:

  FEBRUARY.
]

 ┌─────────────┬───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
 │1835.]       │                       FEBRUARY.                       │
 ├─────────────┼───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
 │             │Birds, this month, do bill and coo;                    │
 │             │Do the like, and you may rue.                          │
 │             │Courting is a pretty pleasure;                         │
 │             │Wed in haste, repent at leisure.                       │
 │             │        * * * * * *                                    │
 │             │To hen-peck'd husbands what a feast!                   │
 │             │This month, all women talk the least.                  │
 ├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │ M│ Season's │              =Odd Matters.=              │  WEATHER.  │
 │ D│  Signs.  │                                          │            │
 ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│mizzle    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  Rain or   │
 │  │          │                                          │   hail,    │
 │ 2│drizzle   │             VALENTINE'S DAY.             │            │
 │  │          │                                          │    ☽ ☍     │
 │ 3│frizzle   │I can't make out what they're about,      │            │
 │  │          │  Nor how the men incline;                │  snow or   │
 │  │          │                                          │   sleet    │
 │ 4│raw       │I've watch'd each knock, since nine       │            │
 │  │          │  To get a Valentine.                     │  ☉ ♊ ♓ ♓   │
 │ 5│thaw      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │In vain I've tried on every side,         │     in     │
 │ 6│hearts    │  Some happy chance to see,               │            │
 │  │          │For, ah, alas! there came to pass         │ this month │
 │ 7│darts     │  No Valentine for me.                    │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 8│smarts    │From morn till night I've scream'd "The   │ ☌ ♈ ♒ ♄ ⚹  │
 │  │          │  light                                   │            │
 │  │          │  Guitar," above a week.                  │            │
 │ 9│loves     │"Bid me discourse, has made me hoarse,    │   you're   │
 │  │          │  Till I can scarcely speak.              │            │
 │10│doves     │                                          │  sure to   │
 │  │          │                                          │   meet.    │
 │  │          │Through rain and snow I always go         │            │
 │11│gloves    │  To Tuesday evening lecture,             │            │
 │  │          │Yet snow and rain don't bring a swain;    │   ♀ ♂ ☿    │
 │12│willing   │  And why, I can't conjecture.            │            │
 │  │          │                                          │If you don't│
 │13│billing   │In short, to find a lover kind,           │            │
 │  │          │  I've us'd all honest ways,              │  ♊ ☌ ⊕ ♓   │
 │14│wooing    │I've pinch'd my toes, and no one knows    │            │
 │  │          │  How tight I've lac'd my stays.          │  why then  │
 │15│cooing    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │Three times to-day, across the way,       │ you won't: │
 │16│eyes      │  The postman has been seen—              │            │
 │  │          │And this makes four—at Jones's door       │            │
 │17│sighs     │  One! two! "For Betty Green."            │ ☊ ♅ ♑ ♎ ⚹  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │18│mate      │Well! on my word, old Major Bird          │  Perhaps   │
 │  │          │  Stands making signs, I think,—          │            │
 │19│fate      │(If Betty dares to set her snares,—)      │there won't │
 │  │          │  I'm sure I saw him wink.                │            │
 │20│love      │                                          │   be one   │
 │  │          │I vow I'll call, and tell it all;         │            │
 │21│cold      │  They'll give her instant warning;       │            │
 │  │          │And, but the river makes one shiver,      │ ♃ ☉ ♐ ♋ ♉  │
 │22│scratch   │  I'd drown to-morrow morning.            │            │
 │  │          │                                          │nor t'other:│
 │23│scold     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │    ☍ ☿     │
 │24│fight     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  Why then  │
 │25│bite      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │   'twill   │
 │  │          │                                          │   happen   │
 │26│spite     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │   ♊ ☿ ⚹    │
 │27│mope      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │     in     │
 │28│rope      │                                          │some other. │
 └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘


                 HUMBUGGUM ASTROLOGICUM, PRO ANNO 1835.

  VOX MULTORUM, VOX STULTORUM: _The Voice of the Many is the Voice of
    a Zany.—It brawleth at all Places and Seasons._

[Illustration]

 COURTEOUS READER,

STEPPING in the steps of my late worthy and much-lamented Prototype,
FRANCIS MOORE, deceased, I herewith present you with my Hieroglyphic,
"_adapted to the_ TIMES." "Its interpretation is in the womb of time,"
and those who do pry with curious eyes into the mysteries of the stars,
will, in due season, divine the hidden meaning thereof. Yet may I
observe, that by the rules of art, I have discovered, that a fiery
planet, which has been for some time located in the upper house, and has
been for a long while lord of the ascendant, has come in fiery
opposition with _Scorpio_; while _Taurus_ hath flung a quartile ray at
both of them.

[Illustration:

  MARCH.
]

 ┌─────────────┬───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
 │1835.]       │                        MARCH.                         │
 ├─────────────┼───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
 │             │I fear I am a Sinner lost,                             │
 │             │  For often do I pray,—                                │
 │             │That I could read, in _Times_ or _Post_,               │
 │             │  The death of LADY DAY.                               │
 ├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │ M│ Season's │              =Odd Matters.=              │  WEATHER.  │
 │ D│  Signs.  │                                          │            │
 ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│Shrove    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ I suspend  │
 │ 2│tide      │               MARCH WINDS.               │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ ☌ ☉ ♄ ♃ ♊  │
 │ 3│fritter   │Come, Bully MARCH! and show your          │            │
 │  │          │  blustering face;                        │            │
 │  │fried     │I'll give you blow for blow, to your      │     my     │
 │  │          │  disgrace.                               │            │
 │  │          │You take advantage of us Fleet Street     │predictions │
 │  │          │  sinners,                                │            │
 │ 5│Nan       │While the police are gone to get their    │            │
 │  │          │  dinners.                                │            │
 │  │          │From Racket Court you rush, with such a   │  ♅ ☊ ♌ ♑   │
 │  │          │  rattle,                                 │            │
 │ 6│makes     │As makes the Lumber troopers fear a       │            │
 │  │          │  battle.                                 │            │
 │  │          │                                          │   on the   │
 │ 7│pan-      │  Oh! what fun, by the Bolt-in-tun,       │            │
 │  │          │    As your windy highness passes;        │  weather   │
 │ 8│cakes     │  D'ye hear a crash? There's a window-sash│            │
 │  │          │    Made multiplying glasses.             │            │
 │ 9│batter    │                                          │    ♓ ☊     │
 │  │          │And now you come again from Chanc'ry Lane,│            │
 │10│clatter   │Where "Law" and "Assurance" guard Old     │this month, │
 │  │          │  Dunstan's fane.                         │            │
 │  │          │(_Old_ Dunstan, did I say?—_young_ Dunstan│            │
 │  │          │  now,                                    │            │
 │11│spatter   │As many a heavy parish rate will show.)   │  ♂ ☿ ☉ ☽   │
 │  │          │See how you raise a riot and a rout,      │            │
 │12│sky       │Tossing old women's petticoats about;     │ because I  │
 │  │          │Hats, capes, and umbrellas round you      │            │
 │  │          │  scatter,                                │            │
 │13│high      │Till good Saint Bridget wonders what's the│  shall be  │
 │  │          │  matter.                                 │    able    │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │14│toss      │  Ah, che _gust_-o! what a dusto!         │            │
 │  │          │    Blowing, growing, as it flies.        │ ♂ ♌ ♑ ♓ ♄  │
 │15│in the    │  Lime and mortar show no quarter,        │            │
 │  │          │    Ramming, cramming, ears and eyes.     │to tell more│
 │16│pan       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │They say your dust is gold; so, little    │ correctly  │
 │  │          │  fear                                    │            │
 │17│high      │Of growing poor; we'll roll in riches     │            │
 │  │          │  here;                                   │            │
 │  │          │Then blow up, MARCH! our sapient parish   │  ♎ ♐ ♏ ♀   │
 │  │          │  powers                                  │            │
 │18│as        │Ne'er think of water till the April       │            │
 │  │          │  showers.                                │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ next year; │
 │19│you       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │    and     │
 │20│can       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ moreover,  │
 │21│toss      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │22│them      │                                          │    ⊕ ♃     │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │23│higher    │                                          │ my readers │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │24│fat       │                                          │    can     │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │25│in the    │                                          │ ♌ ♂ ♓ ♄ ☊  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │26│fire      │                                          │  exercise  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │27│soot      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ their own  │
 │28│must      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │29│splash    │                                          │ judgments  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │30│crash     │                                          │  ♂ ☽ ♊ ☿   │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │31│ash       │                                          │ thereupon. │
 └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘


                        MY GRANDMOTHER'S LAMENT;
                                  or,
                           THE SETTLING DAY.

 It was a drear November morn; the rain was pouring fast;
 I underneath a gateway stood, in hopes it would not last;
 And forthwith I began to muse, and to myself did say:
 I hope the rain will soon give o'er, for this is "SETTLING DAY."

 If I don't stand for shelter here, I shall be wetted thro';
 I at the Stock Exchange shall be _black-boarded_ if I do:
 And while I thus was fidgetting, the sun shot forth a ray;
 And then I hoped to be in time all for the "SETTLING DAY."

 The rain clear'd off, and gladsomely I did prepare to go,
 When up there came an Ancient Dame with visage full of woe:
 She laid on me her skinny hand, and mournfully did say:
 "To my lament you must give ear, altho' 'tis 'SETTLING DAY.'"

 "Good lady," I began to say, "my time is very short,"—
 And fain I would have slipp'd away, but she my button caught.
 "Oh! listen to your Grandmother! for she has much to say,"—
 (She surely held me by some spell, although 'twas "SETTLING DAY.")

 "From morn till eve I wander forth; I roam like one distraught;
 "Which ever way I turn my eyes, with ruin it is fraught.
 "The good old times are quite forgot; all things do fade away;
 "And when I mourn, the people laugh, and cry: ''tis SETTLING DAY.'

 "'Twas in the Court of Chancery I oft did take my nap;
 "And many doubting Chancellors I've dandled in my lap;
 "But now the _Broom_, that sweeps the room, it brushes me away;
 "And says, for me, and all such crones, it is the 'SETTLING DAY.'

 "'Twas in the Commons House I sat, when Billy Pitt was young;
 "I listen'd to his twelve-hour speech, and blest his fluent tongue.
 "They us'd to sit from night till morn; and how they talk'd away!
 "But now they sit from morn till night: oh! what a 'SETTLING DAY!'

 "They've London pull'd about one's ears; 'tis London now no more;
 "They've swallow'd up poor Swallow Street; behind is now before;
 "They've metamorphos'd Charing Cross; the Mews has pass'd away,
 "And Lewkner's Lane I seek in vain: 't has had its 'SETTLING DAY.'


 "St. Dunstan's Church they've built anew; oh! what a _Gothic_ feat!
 "The _Savages_, who beat the _Bells_, have beaten a retreat;
 "They've built another London Bridge; the old one's clear'd away;
 "For such destructive knaves I wish a speedy 'SETTLING DAY.'

 "The Watchmen mustn't cry the hour, nor in their boxes snore;
 "Their occupation's gone, and time with them is now no more.
 "They tell me, too, the little Sweeps no more must 'Soot, ho!' say:
 "I hope for such black deeds there'll come a _sweeping_ 'SETTLING DAY.'

 "Another thing doth sorrow bring, and maketh me to fret;
 "They talk about abolishing Imprisonment for Debt;
 "And next, alas! the time may come, there'll be no costs to pay,
 "For ev'ry man will get his own upon the 'SETTLING DAY.'

 "I mind me, when a little girl, I travell'd once to York;
 "And slow and stately did we ride; it was a three days' work;
 "But now they do it all by steam, so very fast, they say,
 "To Brummagem you'll go, and back, in half a 'SETTLING DAY.'

 "I heard them talk, awhile agone, about an air-balloon,
 "To come from France, and carry us a journey to the moon.
 "When folks become so impious, our duty 'tis to pray,
 "That such presumptuous doings soon may meet a 'SETTLING DAY.'

 "That horrid March of Intellect has prov'd a perfect bore;
 "I fear it killed poor St. John Long: his rubbing days are o'er;
 "But 'twas a gracious sight to see his funeral array,
 "And lords and ladies join the train, upon his 'SETTLING DAY.'

 "They've made the babes at infant schools so very wise indeed,
 "That they can read before they speak, and write before they read:
 "They're wiser than their grandmothers! you hear the people say,
 "I can't survive this awful shock;—this cruel 'SETTLING DAY.'"

 While thus the crone did make her moan, I pitied her full sore,
 And much I strove to comfort her, when she had given o'er;
 I begg'd of her to list to me, and I'd be bound to say,
 Some snug abuses I would find, without a "SETTLING DAY."

 For dirty courts and narrow lanes, I told her not to fret;
 To 'mind us of the good old times, there was a plenty yet:
 At East and West, 'mong gents and cits, there's many a crooked way,
 And holes and corners dark enough, without a "SETTLING DAY."

 I bade her look at Temple Bar,—that venerable pile;
 Its mould'ring stones and rotten gates, and then she gave a smile
 She thought upon the bleeding heads, and plaintively did say:
 "I hope for that dear obstacle there'll be no 'SETTLING DAY.'"


 Tho' St. John Long (I said) is gone,—that curer of all ills,—
 We still have modest Morison's fam'd Vegetable Pills;
 Then think upon the Pension List, where stand, in grand array,
 A splendid train, who take their cash on ev'ry "SETTLING DAY."

 I own'd that, for the London Cries, we now must ring a knell:
 But if we've lost the 'Sweep soot-ho!' we've got the dustman's bell;
 Tho' in the street, it is not meet that folks should preach or pray;
 Yet Punch may bawl, and singers squall, without a "SETTLING DAY."

 My Granny grinn'd a ghastly smile, and let my button go;
 "We'll meet again," she said, "and then I'll tell you all my woe:
 "You have not heard a twentieth part; but you'll no longer stay."
 She vanish'd straight; but all too late;—I lost _my_ "SETTLING DAY."


                      ADVERTISEMENT EXTRAORDINARY.

A GENTLEMAN, who is about to proceed to New South Wales, on the public
account, for fourteen years, is desirous of providing a confidential
situation for an active YOUTH, previously to his departure. He is
exceedingly light-fingered, and very dexterous in the conveyance of
property; and, among his other accomplishments, the advertiser can
confidently recommend him for considerable skill in opening locks
without the aid of a key. He has been brought up to the _bar_; and is
_lineally_ descended from the renowned Jerry Abershaw. Most of his
relations have been raised to exalted situations, far above the ordinary
crowd; and, indeed, there is little doubt, that the force of his genius,
if suffered to take its course, will, in time, procure for him the same
degree of elevation. He can refer with confidence for a character to any
of the gentlemen composing that respectable body, the Swell Mob
Association; and the advertiser will be happy to reply to any inquiries,
addressed—PETER PRIG, Esq., at the Stone Jug Hotel, Old Bailey.

[Illustration:

  APRIL.
]

 ┌─────────────┬───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
 │1835.]       │                        APRIL.                         │
 ├─────────────┼───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
 │             │    Opera open—Town fills—                             │
 │             │    Old fools dance quadrilles—                        │
 │             │Paganini's fiddle-de-D—                                │
 │             │The D— once fiddled a guinea from me—                  │
 │             │Crockford's splendid Saturday Dinners—                 │
 │             │Sunday—"Miserable sinners!"                            │
 ├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │ M│ Season's │              =Odd Matters.=              │  WEATHER.  │
 │ D│  Signs.  │                                          │            │
 ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│growing   │                                          │  If it be  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 2│showers   │              APRIL RHYMES.               │  neither   │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 3│springing │Rhymes for April—let me sing              │ ♄ ♊ ♌ ☿ ⚹  │
 │  │          │The pleasures of returning spring.        │            │
 │ 4│flowers   │                                          │    warm    │
 │  │          │  I wish, in verse the lines ran single,  │            │
 │ 5│hot       │'Tis tiresome, hunting words that jingle, │ nor cold,  │
 │  │          │                                          │    wet     │
 │  │          │And just as hard, in any season,          │            │
 │ 6│cross     │To furnish either rhyme or reason:        │  nor dry,  │
 │  │          │For showers, and bowers, and buds of      │            │
 │  │          │  roses,                                  │            │
 │ 7│bunn      │Nights, and blights, and blue cold noses, │  ♂ ☉ ☌ ☍   │
 │  │          │Beams and gleams, and flow'rets springing,│            │
 │ 8│day       │Feather'd warblers, winging, singing,     │    calm    │
 │  │          │Hills and rills, and groves and loves,    │            │
 │ 9│Easter    │Wooing, cooing, turtle-doves,             │ nor storm; │
 │  │          │Shades and glades, and larks and thrushes,│            │
 │10│Monday    │Chilly grass, and dripping bushes,        │    and     │
 │  │          │Are soon a poor exhausted store;—         │            │
 │11│what a    │I'll try a city theme for more.           │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  ⚹ ♊ ♄ ☉   │
 │12│fun       │  Judges, fudges, wigs, and prigs,        │            │
 │  │          │In coaches, busses, cabs, and gigs,       │  there be  │
 │13│day!      │Dripping, tripping, slipping, slopping,   │            │
 │  │          │Pink silk stockings go a-shopping;        │  neither   │
 │14│prentice  │Haggling, draggling, puddling, poking,    │            │
 │  │          │Drizzling, mizzling, muddling, soaking,   │            │
 │15│boys      │Dirty crossings, dainty faces,            │ ♃ ♄ ☉ ☿ ♂  │
 │  │          │Pretty legs choose widest places;         │            │
 │16│full      │And fools are made, by far the worst,     │frost, snow,│
 │  │          │On other days besides the First.          │            │
 │17│of        │                                          │hail, rain, │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │18│joys      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │19│noise     │                                          │    ♊ ☉     │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │20│toys      │                                          │ ♄ ♊ ☿ ♂ ⚹  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │21│Greenwich │                                          │  why then  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │22│hill      │                                          │you may say,│
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │23│Jack      │                                          │   ♄ ♊ ☉    │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │24│and       │                                          │    that    │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │25│Jill      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ ♃ ♄ ♊ ☉ ♂  │
 │26│tumble    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │    I am    │
 │27│down      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ ☌ ☉ ♌ ♈ ☿  │
 │28│crack     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │     no     │
 │29│their     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ conjurer.  │
 │30│crown     │                                          │            │
 └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘


     _ABSTRACT of an ACT, intituled an Act for the Amendment of an
                Act for the Amendment of the Poor Laws._

                [To be passed on the 1st of April next.]

_Preamble._—Abuses all former Acts, and repeals them accordingly.

_Clause 1._—Empowers paupers to act as Churchwardens and Overseers; to
form their own vestries, and pass laws for their own relief.

_Clause 2._—Provides for weekly tavern dinners for the same; and
stipulates for a bountiful supply of turtle-soup, venison, burgundy,
champagne, hock, claret, and rose-water.

_Clause 3._—Enacts that pensions, of not less than £1000 per annum,
shall be granted to all former Churchwardens and Overseers, as a
compensation for their loss of office; and that they shall each be
raised to the rank of baronet, as a compensation for their loss of
dignity.

_Clause 4._—Enacts that every able-bodied pauper, who can work, shall be
allowed five guineas per week each, and two guineas for each of their
children, illegitimate or otherwise; and should any refractory pauper
refuse this allowance, and prefer breaking stones at a penny per bushel,
he shall be forthwith committed to the custody of the keeper of the
London Tavern, if in the City of London, or of some inn or hotel, if any
other part of the kingdom, and be compelled to feast like an alderman,
till he show symptoms of contrition.

_Clause 5._—That as many paupers may prefer being boarded and lodged,
suitable mansions shall be erected for the purpose, in cheerful and airy
situations; to which governors shall be appointed, to be elected by the
paupers, for the due regulation thereof. And if, on complaint of one or
more of the said paupers, it shall appear, that the said governor hath,
on any occasion, omitted to provide them with all due necessaries, such
as silver forks, doileys, finger-glasses, napkins, or other
indispensable matters; or hath omitted to serve their tea, coffee, or
chocolate, in silver pots, and china cups and saucers; or substituted
plain lump for double-refined lump sugar, or milk for cream, or tallow
for wax candles, or a feather-bed for a down-bed: or neglected to keep
the harp or piano in proper tune, or to furnish clean linen once a day,
(if they desire it, but not otherwise); or presumed to call them out of
bed before twelve at noon, unless specially directed so to do; or
behaved disrespectfully, or omitted to stand uncovered in their
presence, &c. &c. &c. for each and every such offence, the said governor
shall be committed to the tread-mill for not less than six calendar
months.

_Clause 6._—Each pauper, who is a boarder as aforesaid, shall be at
liberty to invite as many friends as he pleases, to a grand dinner
party, to be holden once a week; a concert and ball to be holden twice a
week; and a grand concert and ball to take place four times in the year;
on which occasion, the said paupers, or a committee thereof, shall be at
liberty to engage any of the Italian singers, provided their terms do
not exceed 100 guineas each per night.

_Clause 7._—Allows a premium of 50 guineas to the mother of every
illegitimate child born in the said mansion.

_Clause 8._—Enacts that the halt, the maimed, and the blind, together
with all aged, infirm, diseased, idiotic, and insane persons, and all
who are unable, through mental or bodily incapacity, to maintain
themselves, shall be allowed the liberty of begging their bread on the
king's highway; by which, public sympathy will be powerfully awakened,
and pauperism effectually discouraged.

_Clause 9._—Enacts that all the moneys, necessary for carrying the
foregoing provisions into effect, shall be disbursed from the pockets of
the honest and industrious.

_Clause 10._—Enacts that this Act shall neither be altered, amended, nor
repealed.


                      ADVERTISEMENT EXTRAORDINARY.

FOUND on a suspicious person, stopped by the Police, the following
articles, _viz._:—

1. The clock of old St. Dunstan's Church, with the Cross of St. Paul's
and the steeple of the church in Langham Place, which he had converted
into a seal and key, and appended thereto by a chain cable.

2. The images of Gog and Magog from Guildhall. N. B. He begged hard to
have these restored to him, alleging that he had bought them as
playthings for his children.

3. The "collective wisdom" of St. Stephen's Chapel, which he had
purloined from the Members' skulls, before the late fire, and had
artfully concealed in a nut-shell.

4. The conscience of the legal profession, which, at first, was scarcely
perceptible, but on its being accidentally placed in a bag of
sovereigns, became extremely vociferous.

5. A cart-load of Billingsgate abuse, and a bag of moonshine. Should
these articles not be claimed, they will be sold to the best bidder.
N.B. They would admirably answer the purpose of some of our "best public
Instructors."

There were several other articles of less value, all of which will be
restored, to the right owners, on application to the Mansion House.

 ┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┐
 │                          MAY.                          │      [1835.│
 ├─────────────┬──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┤
 │             │Madame de Staël declared, one day,                     │
 │             │She was always afraid of the month of MAY;             │
 │             │So bless Lord Brougham's legislation,—                 │
 │             │His "boon to the female population,"—                  │
 │             │Which keeps them, 'gainst their kind intent,           │
 │             │Discreet by act of parliament.                         │
 ├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │ M│ Season's │              =Odd Matters.=              │  WEATHER.  │
 │ D│  Signs.  │                                          │            │
 ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│First of  │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  Touching  │
 │ 2│May       │       THE CHIMNEY SWEEP'S LAMENT.        │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ ♈ ♀ ⚹ ♏ ☽  │
 │ 3│Day       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │"Ah, Sal! vot lots of First of Mays       │the weather │
 │ 4│once      │Is gone, since them 'ere jolly days,      │            │
 │  │          │    Ven times vos times to brag on;       │  ♃ ⊕ ♒ ☉   │
 │ 5│a gay     │I can't make out vot hails the nation,    │            │
 │  │          │For now there's sich a halteration,       │    I do    │
 │ 6│day       │    Ve've much ado to vag on.             │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ somewhat,  │
 │ 7│Jack      │"Vy, ven the big reform bill pass'd,      │            │
 │  │          │Ve holp John Russell to the last,         │            │
 │ 8│in the    │    Like birdies of a feather;            │   ☿ ♊ ☽    │
 │  │          │And, sure, their Vorships von't deny      │            │
 │ 9│green     │Ve daily join'd in common cry,            │as it were, │
 │  │          │    And sung out 'Sveep' together.        │            │
 │10│ravish-   │                                          │ dubitate;  │
 │  │          │"But now, unmindful vot they owes,        │            │
 │11│ing       │They makes no odds 'twixt friends and     │            │
 │  │          │  foes,                                   │            │
 │  │          │    And gags us with their laws;          │ ☌ ♒ ☿ ♊ ♎  │
 │12│scene     │For since the nobs has got their ends,    │            │
 │  │          │They grows asham'd of chummy friends,     │ tho' most  │
 │13│chimney   │    And makes us hold our jaws.           │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │14│sweepers  │"There's Bob the dustman rings his bell,  │  ☌ ♓ ♑ ♌   │
 │  │          │And Flounder Bet cries mack-er-el,        │            │
 │15│no        │    And no one hinders she;—              │probably, it│
 │  │          │If singing 'Sveep' vakes Bobby's pal,     │            │
 │16│longer    │Vy Bob and Bet disturbs my Sal,           │   ☽ ♂ ♀    │
 │  │          │    Vot's all as dear to me.              │            │
 │17│creepers  │                                          │  will be   │
 │  │          │"Vy, bless your eyes, the first May-day   │            │
 │18│holiday   │I ever seed you prance away,              │ ♎ ♐ ☍ ♋ ♉  │
 │  │          │    So fine that queens might follor,     │            │
 │19│jolly     │All deck'd in roses, silks and lace,      │in some sort│
 │  │          │I thought it was fair Dafney's face,      │            │
 │20│day       │    And I vos your Apollor.               │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  ♂ ☽ ☌ ♄   │
 │21│off       │"And tho' the temperation folks           │            │
 │  │          │Would throw cold water on our jokes,      │seasonable, │
 │22│they      │    And damp our fun and glee;            │            │
 │  │          │On this, our yearly Annival,              │    ♓ ♑     │
 │23│go        │I'll be a king, and you, my Sal,          │            │
 │  │          │Shall be a queen to me."                  │ or perhaps │
 │24│dancing   │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ otherwise, │
 │25│prancing  │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │26│whirling  │                                          │ ♂ ♅ ♂ ♌ ☿  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │27│twirling  │                                          │    just    │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │28│on the    │                                          │as the case │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │29│light     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  ♍ ☍ ♈ ♀   │
 │30│fantastic │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │may happen. │
 │31│toe       │                                          │            │
 └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘

[Illustration:

  MAY.
]


                   PROCEEDINGS OF LEARNED SOCIETIES.

_At the Philosophical Institution_, held at the Pig and Tinder Box, in
Liquorpond Street, a letter was read by Sawney Suck-Egg, Esq., on the
possibility of extending the realms of space, and adding to the duration
of eternity. In the same essay, he also satisfactorily proved, that two
and _too_ do _not_ make four; that BLACK is very often white; and that a
Chancery suit has shewn to many a man, that what has a beginning does
not necessarily always have an end.

A new mode of raising the wind was also communicated to this society by
Jeremy Diddler, Esq.; a very useful invention for broken-down gamblers,
ruined spendthrifts, insolvent tradesmen, and 'Change Alley waddlers.

_Geological Society of Hog's Norton._—The fossil remains of an
antediluvian pawnbroker have been dug up, within a mile of this place.
This is not regarded as a very remarkable circumstance, as many recent
instances have been known of the hearts of several persons of this class
being in a petrified state while alive.

A successful method of converting stones into bread has been transmitted
to the New Poor Law Commissioners, and a three-and-sixpenny medal
presented to the ingenious discoverer thereof.

_Zoological Society at Hookem Snivey._—A new animal has been transmitted
from No-Man's Land, which has been named the Flat-Catcher. It bears some
resemblance to the human species, as it walks on two legs, and has the
gift of speech. It seems quite in its element when among _pigeons_, and
preys ravenously on the _gulls_ that hover about watering-places,
getting hold of them by a kind of fascination, which throws its
unconscious victims entirely off their guard, when it never fails to
make them bleed profusely; after which, it suffers them to depart.

A laborious investigator has discovered that there are exactly nine
millions, one hundred and sixty-four thousand, five hundred and
thirty-three hairs on a tom-cat's tail, which he defies all the
zoologists in Europe to disprove. He also maintains that a bull sees
with its horns, and a rat with its tail, although he admits the
possibility of their doing so without them.

It was stated at the last meeting of this institution, that one of its
members had observed a tremendous water-spout from one of the plugs in
Thames Street; and sensible shocks of an earthquake had been felt at
Puddle-dock.

_Society of Antiquaries._—Among the antiquities presented at the last
meeting, was one of Cleopatra's corns, and the celebrated Needle with
which she darned her hose; also, a gas-pipe, found at Herculaneum, and
the fragment of a steam-carriage, dug out of the ruins of Palmyra.

_Entomological Society in GRUB Street._—A very animated conversation
took place on the natural history of the flea, involving many curious
conjectures, such as, whether it had ever been known to have attained
the size of the elephant; whether it was of the same species with the
hog-in-armour and the rhinoceros, or was to be classed among the
_Jumpers_; how high and how often it leaped; whether it always looked
before it leaped; and whether it leaped highest in Leap Year; the
farther discussion of all which queries was deferred till the said Leap
Year.

_The Horticultural Society of Seven Dials_ has been presented, by the
Society of Antiquaries, with the identical pumpkin converted by the
fairy into Cinderella's chariot.

_Premiums have been awarded by various learned bodies to the
following_:—

To Henry Broom, for the application of the crab motion, and the
"do-as-little-as-possible" principle, to the state engine.—To Lord
Durham, in conjunction with the above, for an improved mode of
progression for the said engine, namely, by each pulling the opposite
way.—To Signor Paganini, for an improved mode of extracting gold from
catgut scrapings, and of skinning flints.—To Miss Harriet Martineau, for
a new preventive check-string for the regulation of the fare (_fair_).—
To the proprietor of Morison's Pills for the discovery of the _perpetual
motion_.—To the Society for the Confusion of Useful Knowledge, for their
successful endeavours in be-_Knight_-ing the public intellect.

[Illustration:

  JUNE.
]

 ┌─────────────┬───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
 │1835.]       │                         JUNE.                         │
 ├─────────────┼───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
 │             │Of all the folks, this month you'll see,               │
 │             │The DAYS are the _longest_ family;                     │
 │             │But the gallant Ross, in polar weather,                │
 │             │Met one as long as six Months together.                │
 ├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │ M│ Season's │              =Odd Matters.=              │  WEATHER.  │
 │ D│  Signs.  │                                          │            │
 ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│Quarter   │                                          │  Look for  │
 │  │          │RIGDUM FUNNIDOS transcribeth              │            │
 │ 2│day       │the following seasonable story from       │ ♈ ☿ ♍ ♀ ♑  │
 │  │          │the lucubrations of his defunct friend,   │            │
 │ 3│rent      │_Poor Humphrey_.                          │   summer   │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 4│to        │                                          │  weather   │
 │  │          │            HOW TO KILL FLEAS.            │            │
 │ 5│pay       │                                          │   ♅ ☊ ♌    │
 │  │          │A notable Projector became notable by     │            │
 │ 6│afraid    │one project only, which was a certain     │   about    │
 │  │          │specific for the killing of Fleas;        │            │
 │ 7│to stay   │and it was in form of a powder, and       │  ♄ ☌ ☽ ♏   │
 │  │          │sold in papers, with                      │            │
 │ 8│bolt      │plain directions for use, as              │ this time; │
 │  │          │followeth: The flea was to be held,       │            │
 │ 9│away      │conveniently, between the                 │ ⚹ ♀ ♈ ♐ ♎  │
 │  │          │fore-finger and thumb of the left         │            │
 │10│come      │hand; and to the end of the trunk or      │  that is   │
 │  │          │proboscis, which protrudeth in the        │            │
 │11│too       │flea, somewhat as the elephant's          │  to say,   │
 │  │          │doth, a very small quantity of the        │            │
 │12│soon      │powder was to be put from between         │    ♌ ♑     │
 │  │          │the thumb and finger of the right         │            │
 │13│cash      │hand. And the inventor undertook,         │  somewhat  │
 │  │          │that if any flea to whom his powder       │            │
 │14│affairs   │was so administered should prove to       │            │
 │  │          │have afterwards bitten a purchaser        │  ♉ ♋ ☋ ♅   │
 │15│are       │who used it, then that such               │            │
 │  │          │purchaser should have another paper       │   warm,    │
 │16│out of    │of the said powder, _gratis_. And it      │            │
 │  │          │chanced that the first paper thereof      │   ♃ ♂ ⊕    │
 │17│tune      │was bought, idly as it were, by an        │            │
 │  │          │old woman; and she, without meaning       │  perhaps   │
 │18│shoot     │to injure the inventor or his             │            │
 │  │          │remedy, but of her mere                   │    hot,    │
 │19│the       │harmlessness, did, innocently as it       │            │
 │  │          │were, ask him whether, when she had       │            │
 │20│moon      │caught the flea, and after she had        │ ☍ ♈ ♀ ⚹ ♊  │
 │  │          │got it as before described, if she        │            │
 │21│we        │should crack it upon her nail, it         │     or     │
 │  │          │would not be as well. Whereupon the       │            │
 │22│fly       │ingenious projector was so                │ perchance  │
 │  │          │dumbfounded by the question, that,        │            │
 │23│by        │not knowing what to answer on the         │ it may be  │
 │  │          │sudden, he said, with truth, to this      │            │
 │24│night     │effect, that, without doubt, her way      │  coolish;  │
 │  │          │would do, too.                            │    ♊ ♀     │
 │25│rapid     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │   and if   │
 │26│flight    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ it raineth │
 │27│very      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │    not,    │
 │28│quickly   │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  it will   │
 │29│out of    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  be dry.   │
 │30│sight     │                                          │            │
 └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘


                     THE "WISDOM OF OUR ANCESTORS."

RIGDUM FUNNIDOS lamenteth, that there are, in this our day, among those
who do seek to subvert the venerable usages of our ancestors, divers
vauntings and boastings as to what they do most affectedly and
erroneously term "the growing intelligence of the age,"—"the march of
intellect," and such-like absurd phraseologies. This irreverent spirit
doth manifest itself in unseemly comparisons, between the times which
are past, and those which are present, which do end in a preferring, to
the wisdom of the olden time, their own newfangled and presumptuous
theories. Nay, there be even those who do maintain, that what the
lamented FRANCIS MOORE did, and other equally wise admirers of the
by-gone past do, venerate as the _olden_ time, is, in very sooth, the
_juvenile_ time; inasmuch as time groweth older every day, and, as a
necessary consequence thereof, every succeeding generation groweth
wiser. It profiteth not to waste words on such manifest absurdity;
suffice it therefore to say, that RIGDUM FUNNIDOS hath, with much cost
and travail, assemblaged what may be most worthily intituled, a fair
sample of '_collective wisdom_' wherein will be found, most
conspicuously shown forth, the worthiness of our ancestors to the
designation of _Wise_.

  "Concerning the superstitious use of what is called the Glorious
  Hand, or Hand of Glory, by housebreakers in their robberies, we have
  the following account:—The pretended use of this glorious hand is to
  stupify or stun all those who are present, and render them perfectly
  insensible. This glorious hand is the hand of a hanged criminal,
  prepared in the following manner:—It is wrapped up in a bit of
  winding-sheet, very tight, to force out the small remainder of
  blood, then put into an earthen vessel with zimat, saltpetre, salt,
  and long pepper, all well pulverised, after which, 'tis left fifteen
  days in that pot, then taken out and exposed to the hottest sun of
  dog days, till it becomes very dry; and if the sun be not hot
  enough, they dry it in an oven heated with fern and vervain; then
  they make a sort of candle of the grease of the hanged man, virgin
  wax, and Lapland sefanum, and they make use of this glorious hand as
  a candlestick, to hold this candle when lighted; and in all places
  wherever they come with this fatal instrument, everybody they find
  there becomes immoveable. We are also told, that it is to no purpose
  for thieves to make use of this glorious hand, if the threshold of
  the door, or other places by which they may enter, be rubbed over
  with an unguent, composed of the gall of a black cat, the fat of a
  white hen, and the blood of an owl, and that this composition be
  made in the dog days."—_Tr. of Little Albert_, p. 34.

  "John Weer, in his Book de Prestigus, has drawn up an inventory of
  the diabolical monarchy, with the names and surnames of seventy-two
  princes, and the seven million four hundred and five thousand nine
  hundred and twenty-six devils, errors of computation only excepted,
  adding what qualities and properties, and to what purposes they may
  serve when invoked."—_Bodin_, p. 404.

  "Thrasillus, a Heathen author, cited by Stobœus, says, that at the
  Nile was a stone like a bear, which cured those who were afflicted
  with dæmons for as soon as ever it was applied to the noses of
  dæmoniacks, the devil immediately left them."—_Bodin_, p. 301.

  "The way to be certainly loved, is, to take the marrow of a wolf's
  left foot, and make of it a sort of pomatum, with ambergris and
  cyprus powder, carry it about one, and cause the person to smell of
  it from time to time."—_Albertus_, p. 12.

  "To prevent differences and a divorce betwixt a man and his wife,
  take two quails' hearts, the one of a male, the other of a female,
  and cause the man to carry about him the male, and the woman the
  female."—_Thiers_, tome 1, p. 389.

  "Place a Toad's heart on a woman's left breast when she sleeps, to
  make her tell her secrets."—_Thiers_, tome 1, p. 389.


                    _From_ "MARKHAM'S HORSEMANSHIP."

  _How to doe with a Jaded Horse._—When that your horse is thoroughly
  tired, and hath yet much of his journey to do, alight from him, and
  cut, from the nighest hedge, a short wande, which you shall jag in
  notches with your knife, and, making a hole in the thinnest of his
  ear, when he dothe flag in his pace, then saw the stick to and froe
  in the hole, which will revive him soe that, until he be entirely
  spent, he will not faile to goe.

  _Another way, with the horse of_ a friend, _or that is hired, and
  soe that the proper owner shall not know thereof_.—When that your
  beast is muche wearied, and hath yet far to travel, get down from
  his back, and choose from the road side six smooth round pebbles, of
  which you shall put three in his right ear, and tye up the ear with
  binde-weed, or long grass, purse-wise; then mount him again and put
  him on his mettle, and with the motion of his head the stones in his
  ear will rattle seemingly to him like thunder, which will soe
  inspirit him that while he hath life in him he will not fail to goe;
  and when he doth, after that, slacken of his pace, then tye up three
  in his left ear also.


                 _From_ "ONE THOUSAND NOTABLE THINGS."

  _To Staunch the Bleeding of a Wound._—Write these four letters, A O
  G L, with the blood of the wound, about the wound.

  _A Medicine for the Toothache._—Take a live Mowle, and put him in a
  brass pot, and there let him die, then cut him asunder and take out
  the guts, and dry the blood with a cloth, then cut him in quarters,
  and hang him on a thred drying by the fire's side; when ye would use
  it, lay the fleshy side of it, with bladders of saffron, with a
  cloth to your sore.

  Pare the nails of one that hath the Quartan Ague, which, being put
  into a linen cloth, and so tied about the neck of a quick eel, and
  the same eel put into the water, thereby the ague will be driven
  away.

  It is certainly and constantly affirmed, that on Midsummer eve there
  is found under the root of mugwort a coal which preserves and keeps
  safe from the plague, carbuncle, lightning, the quartan ague, and
  from burning, them that bear the same about them: and Mizaldus, the
  writer hereof, saith that he doth hear that it is to be found the
  same day under the root of plantane; which I know to be of truth,
  for I have found them the same day under the root of plantane. It is
  to be found at noon.

  You shall stay the bleeding of the nose, if you write with the same
  blood, in the forehead of the party that bleeds, these words
  following, _Consummatum est_.

  If one do buy Warts of them that have them, and give them a pin
  therefor, if the party that hath the warts prick the same pin in
  some garment that he wears daily and commonly, the wart or warts,
  without doubt, will diminish and wear away privily, and be clear
  gone in a short time.

  If you take an oak apple from an oak tree, and in the same you shall
  find a little worm, which if it doth fly away, it signifies wars; if
  it creeps, it betokens scarcity of corn; if it run about, then it
  foreshews the plague.

  Whosoever eateth two walnuts, two figs, twenty leaves of rue, and
  one grain of salt, all stamped and mixed together, fasting, shall be
  safe from poison or plague that day; which antidote King Mithridates
  had used so much, that when he drank poison purposely to kill
  himself, it could not hurt him.


           _From_ "THE ACCOMPLISHED GENTLEWOMAN'S COMPANION."

  _To Cure the Toothache._—If a needle is run through a wood-louse,
  and immediately touch the aching tooth with that needle, it will
  cease to ache.

  _To Cure the Jaundice._—Take a live Tench, slit it down the belly;
  take out the guts, and clap the Tench to the stomach as fast as
  possible, and it will cure immediately.


           _From_ "NATURA EXENTERATA, OR NATURE UNBOWELLED."

  _For the Falling Sicknesse._—Take the jaw bone of a man or a woman,
  and beat it into fine powder, and if a woman have the falling
  sicknesse, then use the jaw bone of the man; and if it be a man,
  then use the jaw bone of the woman; so much of the powder as will
  cover a sixpence, put it into wine or any other liquid thing which
  you shall like of, and drink it; you may use it as often as you
  will, but especially at spring and fall.

  _For the Stone._—Take the blood of a Fox, and make it into powder,
  and drink it in wine, and without doubt it shall destroy the stone;
  and if you will not believe, take a stone and put it into the blood
  of a fox, and it will break.

  _For the Falling Evil._—Take the skull of a dead man, whereon moss
  groweth, being taken and washed very clean, and dryed in an oven,
  and then beaten to powder; the skull must be of one that hath been
  slaine, or died suddenly, or of one that was hanged.

  _To take a Corn out of the Toe._—Take a _black_ snail, roast it in a
  _white_ cloth, and when it is roasted, lay it hot to the corn, and
  it will take it away.

  Before death this is a sign, if the tears run down of a man's right
  eye, and a woman's left eye.


                      ADVERTISEMENT EXTRAORDINARY.

THE WORSHIPFUL COMPANY OF WISEACRES, having for nearly two centuries, by
the aid of _Francis Moore_, _Richard Partridge_, _Poor Robin, and Co._,
done great service to the community, particularly to the agricultural
portion thereof (by their _seasonable_ directions for getting in the
harvest, &c.), and occasioned great delight and satisfaction to all the
old women of the empire; and having, moreover, employed the most
diligent endeavours to cause good sense and universal intelligence to
remain, as the said Company's craft and mystery do clearly indicate they
should remain—_Stationary_:—for all these reasons, the said Worshipful
Company do take great credit to themselves for the improvements in their
business and calling, which other folks have originated; and confidently
expect the public will, as in times past, always deal at their shop, and
give them full credit for all the wonderful wonders which they promise
henceforth to perform.

                                    (By order of the Court)
                                            GEORGE GREENHORN, Secretary.

 ┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┐
 │                         JULY.                          │      [1835.│
 ├─────────────┬──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┤
 │             │In this month, follow my advice,                       │
 │             │Never to slide upon the ice;                           │
 │             │But if you should be tired of waiting,                 │
 │             │Why, next month, you may go a-skating.                 │
 ├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │ M│ Season's │              =Odd Matters.=              │  WEATHER.  │
 │ D│  Signs.  │                                          │            │
 ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│What      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ Take note  │
 │ 2│shall     │                VAUXHALL.                 │            │
 │  │          │                                          │   ☽ △ ♓    │
 │ 3│I do      │"Dear Jane, will you go to VAUXHALL       │            │
 │  │          │  We want just to make up a dozen;        │ that, I do │
 │ 4│to get    │Papa will stand treat for us all,         │            │
 │  │          │  And, be sure, give a hint to your       │            │
 │  │          │  cousin.                                 │            │
 │ 5│through   │                                          │ ♊ ☉ ♄ ♂ △  │
 │  │          │There's something so charming about him,  │            │
 │ 6│my task   │  (I've got a new bonnet and shawl)—      │  predict   │
 │  │          │I should be quite unhappy without him,    │            │
 │ 7│let me    │  And careless of even VAUXHALL.          │that you may│
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 8│ask       │My confession you'll never betray,        │            │
 │  │          │  For I'm sure you can manage it all;     │   ☽ ♓ ♑    │
 │ 9│I try     │When you ask him, don't tell what I say,  │            │
 │  │          │  But speak of the charms of VAUXHALL.    │ reasonably │
 │10│again     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │You can talk of the songs and the singers,│look for the│
 │11│but       │  The orchestra, ballet, and ball;        │            │
 │  │          │I shall think that time spitefully lingers│            │
 │12│in vain   │  Till when we all meet at VAUXHALL.      │  ♍ ☉ ⚹ ♍   │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │13│ah!       │Say, there's Simpson the brave, who       │  weather   │
 │  │          │  commanded                               │            │
 │  │          │  Our troops in the year forty-five;      │            │
 │14│you       │Who killed Count de Grasse single-handed, │            │
 │  │          │  And took the French army alive.         │ ♄ ♃ ♂ ☉ ⚹  │
 │15│say       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │And remember the lamps,—how they're       │ being much │
 │  │          │  clustered,                              │            │
 │16│try       │  By thousands and thousands of dozens;   │            │
 │  │          │And then the dark walks—how I'm fluster'd │   warmer   │
 │17│away      │  To think of your dearest of cousins!    │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │18│it's all  │You can talk of the fireworks so gay,     │   ☉ ☽ ⚹    │
 │  │          │  And just mention the ham and the        │            │
 │  │          │  chicken—                                │            │
 │19│my        │We'll contrive to get out of the way,     │    than    │
 │  │          │  While papa makes an end of his picking. │            │
 │20│eye       │                                          │in January; │
 │  │          │I should grieve to think drinking could   │            │
 │  │          │  charm him—                              │            │
 │21│and       │  But ere all my project should fall,     │            │
 │  │          │If nothing in nature can warm him,        │    ♀♄☉     │
 │22│Betty     │  Then speak of the punch at VAUXHALL.    │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  nor do I  │
 │23│Martin    │If all that you say don't avail,          │            │
 │  │          │  I must die with vexation and anguish;   │   think    │
 │24│that's    │But I'm sure that your friendship wont    │            │
 │  │          │  fail                                    │            │
 │  │          │  Your affectionate                       │  there is  │
 │  │          │                                          │   great    │
 │25│for       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                          LYDIA LANGUISH."│            │
 │26│sartin    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │    △ ♓     │
 │27│why       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ likelihood │
 │28│it's      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │29│done!     │                                          │ ♄ △ ♃ ♂ ☉  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │30│what      │                                          │of frost or │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │31│fun!      │                                          │   snow.    │
 └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘

[Illustration:

  JULY.
]

[Illustration:

  AUGUST
]

 ┌─────────────┬───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
 │1835.]       │                        AUGUST.                        │
 ├─────────────┼───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
 │             │            In AUGUST,—so the Planets say,—            │
 │             │            Every _Dog_ shall have his _Day_;          │
 │             │So at _Hounds_ditch they meet, with much frisking and  │
 │             │  larking;                                             │
 │             │And proceed to the choice of a Member for _Barking_.   │
 ├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │ M│ Season's │              =Odd Matters.=              │  WEATHER.  │
 │ D│  Signs.  │                                          │            │
 ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│scamper   │RIGDUM FUNNIDOS confesseth to having      │            │
 │  │          │purloined the following veritable         │            │
 │ 2│away      │story; but when or where, his memory      │   If the   │
 │  │          │deposeth not:—                            │            │
 │ 3│the       │                                          │  weather   │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 4│deuce     │               OYSTER DAY.                │ ♎ ♅ ☉ ♂ ♍  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 5│to pay    │Paddy was sent to Billingsgate, on        │            │
 │  │          │the FIRST of AUGUST, to buy a bushel      │ hath been  │
 │ 6│a mad     │of Oysters. When he returned, "What       │            │
 │  │          │made you so long, Pat?" said his          │  lasting,  │
 │ 7│dog is    │master. "Long, is it? By my sowl, I       │            │
 │  │          │think I've been pretty quick,             │  ☽ ♓ ☌ ☍   │
 │ 8│over      │considering all things." "Considering     │            │
 │  │          │what things?" "Why, considering the       │ look for a │
 │ 9│the       │gutting of the fish."—"Gutting what       │            │
 │  │          │fish?"—"What fish! why the oysthers,      │  change;   │
 │10│way       │to be sure."—"What is it that you         │            │
 │  │          │mean?"—"What do I mane! why I mane,       │            │
 │11│he's      │as I was resting meeself a bit, and       │            │
 │  │          │taking a drop to comfort me, a            │   ☽ ☿ ♍    │
 │12│bit       │jontleman axed me what I had got in       │            │
 │  │          │the sack. 'Oysthers, sir,' says I.        │ ♄ ☌ ♂ ♊ ♉  │
 │13│a cow     │'Let's look at them,' says he, and he     │            │
 │  │          │opened the bag. 'Och! thunder and         │   I say    │
 │14│he's      │praties!' said he, 'who sould them to     │            │
 │  │          │ye?' 'It was Mick Carney,' said I.        │look for it,│
 │15│bit       │'Mick Carney!' said he; 'the thief o'     │            │
 │  │          │the world! what a big blackguard must     │            │
 │16│a sow     │he have been to give them to ye           │ ♐ ♂ ☍ ☉ ♃  │
 │  │          │without gutting.' 'And aren't they        │            │
 │17│he's      │gutted?' said I. 'Divil a one o'          │   though   │
 │  │          │them,' said he. 'Musha, then,' said I,    │            │
 │18│bit       │'what will I do?' 'Do!' said he, 'I'd     │ perhaps a  │
 │  │          │sooner do them for you myself than        │            │
 │19│my        │have you abused!' and so he takes 'em     │change will │
 │  │          │in doors, and guts 'em all nate and       │            │
 │20│poor      │clane, as you'll see." And out Paddy      │ come not;  │
 │  │          │turned the empty shells on the floor.     │            │
 │21│old       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │   ♒ ☽ ♉    │
 │22│mongrel   │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  in which  │
 │23│Toby      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │   case,    │
 │24│and       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │25│they're   │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ ♈ ♃ ♐ ♊ ⚹  │
 │26│raving    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  you will  │
 │27│mad       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  do well   │
 │28│with      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  to wait   │
 │29│the       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │30│hydro-    │                                          │   ☉ ♐ ♃    │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │31│phoby     │                                          │  till it   │
 │  │          │                                          │   doth.    │
 └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘


                        THE GARDENER'S CALENDAR.

As I sat at my window a few evenings ago, a loud rattling in the street
drew my attention, and at the same instant an omnibus stopped at my
nextdoor neighbour's, the poulterer. First alighted a servant-maid and
lad—then two or three half-grown boys and girls, intermingled with a
torrent of chattels, consisting of shrubs, flowers, enough live animals
to stock a menagerie, packages past counting, and lastly, Mrs. Giblet in
full feather, arrayed in lily-white, and bearing in each hand a
full-blown balsam. All was safely landed, when a hackney coach drove up
at a quiet pace, and from it descended, with the help of his shopmen and
a pair of crutches, my neighbour, Simon Giblet himself. His legs were
swathed up, his back, for which broadcloth was formerly too narrow,
seemed considerably shrunk, and he looked care-worn and in pain. After
him was borne his second son Dick, apparently disabled too. I had
scarcely seen my neighbour or any of his family for some months past,
but as I had often gossipped in his shop, I determined to go down and
inquire what had befallen him. He had just arrived at his great wooden
chair. His eyes were gleaming with complacency on a goodly row of fatted
fowls, all placed with their delicate, dainty, floury broad behinds
before, and as he plumped into the seat he ejaculated, with a grunt,
"Thank heaven!" A shopman sat in a corner plucking a snow-white pullet.
Giblet looked at him wistfully, and then, "Bring it here, Sam," he
cried. He took it, plucked a few handfuls of feathers, and as he
returned it to Sam, "Thank heaven!" he grunted again. My foot kicked
against something at the threshold. I stooped and picked up a clasped
book, which I presented to him, as I tendered my sympathy. "Oh!" said
he, "nothing but disasters. I've made ducks and drakes of my money, and
a _goose_ of myself; upon my _sole_, it's a blessing that I got away
before Michaelmas. I'm in too much pain to tell you now. Ah! I see
you've picked up my journal. Work or pleasure, I've always made up a
day-book every night. I'll lend it you if you wish to see how I've been
pigeoned. While I stuck to the fowls all went fair with me, but when I
took to that river-bank I was like a duck out of water." I saw my
neighbour was excited, so, after a few consoling words, I retreated,
carrying off his calendar; and here are some extracts, by permission,
for the benefit of all amateur ruralists.


                                 DIARY.

_March 21, 1834._—Mrs. G. bent on a rural retirement, and declaring this
a dog-cheap bargain,—meet Mr. Grabbit to-morrow, pay premium, and take
lease of his snug place at Strand-on-the-Green.—Wife insists on calling
it Cherub Lodge, Paradise Bank.—N.B. Original sum, £600; Grabbit seeming
to like us, abates a hundred entirely as a favour.

27th.—All safe arrived: only one pier-glass split into four, and best
tea-set, bought as 32 pieces, converted into 32 dozen. However, Mrs. G.
observes, that being by the river side, we must have a marine grotto,
and the pieces of looking-glass, mixed with the bits of blue and gold
china, will make a fine glitter among the moss and shells.

28th.—Grabbit recommends Isaac Snail as head gardener, and his son Isaac
to help him—says old Isaac was his right hand, and begged to be left in
the house, he was so attached to the garden.

31st.—Two days' rain, without ceasing; planning with Isaac on the large
kitchen table covered an inch thick with mould—laid down gravel walks of
red garter, and stuck up skewers for fruit trees.

_April 1._—Rain falling, river rising, cellars filling.

2nd.—Ducks swimming into the parlour—moved to the first floor for
safety—Musical Tom (my youngest) splashing about bare-legged in the
kitchen, and shouting "four feet water in the hold." A leak sprung in
the next onion field—all my land under water. Dick, perched on
window-sill, angling for roach in the garden. Isaac says we shall get
used to it, and the waters always go off again. Daughter Julia tells me
the people of Egypt would think it quite a blessing—beg to differ.

7th.—Can just see land.—House left rather slimy.—Isaac and I commence
gardening in earnest.—Distrained on for forty odd pounds, taxes left
unpaid by Mr. Grabbit.—To keep my goods, parted with the money, and
started to town for an explanation—found Grabbit sailed last week for
Swan River. Isaac says he was a worthy gentleman, but had a bad memory—
begin to be of the same opinion.

9th.—Buried an old hen at the foot of a plum-tree by the light of the
full moon—am told it will then bear egg-plums.

19th.—Potato eyes always an eye-sore, so have planted a bed with every
eye nicely cut away, by which I hope to grow a crop as smooth as my hand
and as blind as moles.—Look for the Horticultural Society's gold medal
for this bright idea.

27th.—Wondered my ranunculuses did not come up; just tried one, found I
had planted them all bottom topmost, and they were shooting away down to
what Dick says is the centre of gravity.

_May_ 3.—Grubbing for grubs among the rose-trees—cucumbers in full
flower—Mrs. Giblet and Julia come to help me—all busy setting the
blossoms—puzzled to tell the male flowers, till Mrs. G. discovered it
all by the book.

12th.—Tulips splendid yesterday, but flagged this morning; and after
dinner all napping with their heads on the bed—Isaac said it was the
east wind. Thought there might be a grub at the roots, so drew one up—
found no bulb—all the rest the same—somebody had taken away the roots
and stuck the flowers into the ground again.

13th.—Finished my new hot-water pipes for the conservatory, all heated
by the kitchen fire—a scheme of my own—Cook had a regular flare-up with
so much company yesterday, so the water was boiling hot all day—by night
the plants looked like scalded goose-berries. This morning, all my pipes
united in a _joint-run_ on the cistern, which answered their draughts to
the last, and the spare water from the green-house floor was soaking
into the breakfast parlour. The inventor just arrived—says it's all
quite regular—the cracked joints will close of themselves in time—I
wonder when.

23rd.—Wrote to the editor of The Gardener's Journal an account of my
plan for growing potatoes without eyes, and the experiments for making
an egg-plum tree.

_June_ 2.—Vines cut last month, all bled to death.—Surprised that my new
potatoes without eyes have not seen daylight yet.—My letter to the
magazine in print.—Encouraging notice by editor, "Thanks S. G. for
communicating his ingenious discoveries; hopes to hear from him again,
with samples of the new potato and egg-plum." Think I shall disclose
myself, and name the new sort, the Cherub Giblet potato. Most of the
neighbours spoke to me coming out of church yesterday, but little
thought who S. G. was.

12th.—Suppose I want exercise.—Wife blows me up, and says I get puffy;
so, to keep all smooth with her and the garden walks, drag the great
roller about for two hours, morning and night.

19th.—Insects in green-house devouring all my new plants; searched book
for a remedy, and last night popped in a pan of burning brimstone. This
morning all the grubs shrivelled to shreds, and every plant dead and
stripped as naked as a plucked chicken. Tom begs to have the green-house
to keep his pigeons in.

23rd.—Fill up odd time in watching fruit trees with a rattle, for the
birds perch on the sham cats and build nests in the mawkins. What with
opening and shutting the cucumber-frames, according to the sun, wind,
and clouds, plenty to do.—Charged the garden-engine with lime water—set
Dick and Tom to play upon the caterpillars. They have so whitewashed the
three Miss Blackets, that I have two velvet bonnets, a silk pelisse, and
a cashmere shawl to pay for.

_July_ 3.—Tool-house robbed last night; all cleared out but the garden
roller. Isaac's list for a new outfit—spades, forks, dibbers, trowels,
traces, hoes, rakes, weeders, scrapers, knives, pruners, axes, saws,
shears, scythes, hammers, pincers, lines, levels, sieves, watering-pots,
syringes,—he would have gone on, but I stopped him.

9th.—Set nooses for wild rabbits, which are devouring everything green,
even the bays. This morning found we had strangled Dick's lop-eared doe.
Tom, who is learning to joke, observed that she had wandered for a
change of food, and had found a _halter_-ation.

18th.—The Cherub Giblet potatoes not coming up to time, tried the ground
and found them rotting—all gone off without a single shoot.—Mem. To
forget them in my next to The Gardener's Journal.

24th.—Half my time taken up in driving the butterflies off the
gooseberry trees. Left my weeding-gloves stuck on a stick last night—put
them on this morning, and smashed five slugs in one, and seven earwigs
in the other.—Mem. Old gloves the best slug-trap.

_August_ 5.—My cucumber frames yield plenty of fruit—have gathered not
less than twenty, worth twopence each—cost me only five pounds six
shillings and sevenpence.

9th.—Strolled into shrubbery this evening with a lanthorn, for the
pleasure of viewing things in a new light—up started two figures from
among the bushes, tumbled me, lanthorn, and all, into a bed of roses,
and escaped. Mem. 'Stablish a spring gun to-morrow.

15th.—Wall-fruit ripening—must have a few friends while there is
something for them—fresh-gathered peaches always a treat.

19th.—Up at six to look after the fruit—all hope of a dessert had
deserted my walls—every ripe plum, peach and nectarine, clean gone, as
though the rogues knew that I had asked ten to dinner. Said nothing, but
sent off Isaac to Covent Garden. Obliged to do it liberally, having
unfortunately been boasting. Looked in book for best man-trap—found it
called the humane, because it only breaks the leg. Mem. Set up a
man-trap to-morrow.

25th.—My egg-plums ripe at last—sent off a loaded branch to my
correspondent the editor—Letter of thanks in return, saying that my tree
would have produced egg-plums whether I had buried the old hen or not.—
Envious, no doubt.

_September_ 2.—Terrible outcry in the garden, this morning, before I was
up—ran down in my shirt—unlucky Dick had stolen a march on the egg-plum
tree for a private regale. Branch broke—there he was on his back,
kicking—hives upset—could not see Dick for bees—got help and rescued him
at last—all stung a little—Dick poulticed from head to foot, and laid up
for a month at least. Isaac says it is a thousand pities, as the honey
was almost ready for taking.

18th.—Went to the Bank to-day—lot of garden tools at old iron-shop in
the City Road—very cheap and ready marked S. G., so bought and
despatched them home—looked up, and saw "Jacob Snail" over door—thought
it rather suspicious.

19th.—Could not sleep for thinking of Isaac and the tools—bright
moonlight at two—looked through the window—something moving on the
garden wall—saw two men among the bees—seized my musket—called Harry to
follow me—crept down through the shrubs, and there was old Isaac, plain
enough, tying the hives in sacks and handing them to young Isaac on the
wall—made sure of the old fox, so fired at the young one; down he fell
into the ditch outside. Sprung forward, forgetting the spring gun,
caught the wire and all the shot in my legs—never made such a jump in my
life—took me plump, head and shoulders, into the man-trap. There I was
locked fast across the chest. How I blessed myself that it was a humane
man-trap!—Old Isaac escaped.—Here I am in bed and likely to be lame for
life—plenty of time for reflection—begin to think myself an ass.

23rd.—Old Isaac not to be found—tracked the young fox—brought him to
confession—both been plundering me every night from the beginning. Old
Isaac stole my tools, and his brother sold them to me again. Young Isaac
stole my tulips—together they stole my peaches and nectarines the night
before my party, and the old knave, when I sent him to town for more,
fetched my own from his cottage, and charged me with them.

25th.—A notice to-day, by which I learn that I have been imposed on by a
swindling knave who had no right to sell me the place or take a premium—
that the owner is coming from the continent and wants instant
possession—never so thankful in my life—better already—pack up—send for
van—hire omnibus for wife, children, and light luggage—go gently myself
with poor Dick in a coach.

26th.—Here comes the omnibus. Huzza!

[Illustration:

  SEPTEMBER.
]

 ┌─────────────┬───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
 │1835.]       │                      SEPTEMBER.                       │
 ├─────────────┼───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
 │             │Boiling, boiling, stewed in steamers,                  │
 │             │  Aldgate flares in Margate manners;                   │
 │             │Fleet Ditch—Shoreditch—both are streamers;             │
 │             │  London flags, deserted banners.                      │
 ├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │ M│ Season's │              =Odd Matters.=              │  WEATHER.  │
 │ D│  Signs.  │                                          │            │
 ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│Ods!      │                                          │  If it be  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 2│flints    │          THE COCKNEY'S ANNUAL.           │    not     │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 3│and       │There's one thing very wonderful,—indeed, │ ♄ ♂ ☊ ☉ ⚹  │
 │  │          │  it quite astonishes,                    │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 4│triggers  │And of the March of Intellect it forcibly │    ☉ ♀     │
 │  │          │  admonishes,                             │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 5│double    │It shows how wise the people are in every │ seasonable │
 │  │          │  situation                               │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 6│barrel-   │And tho' they love reform, how much they  │  weather   │
 │  │          │  hate all innovation,                    │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 7│led       │It proves, that tho' unsparingly they root│            │
 │  │          │  out old abuses,                         │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 8│guns      │They have a pious care for things of      │  ⚹ ♊ ♈ ☌   │
 │  │          │  venerable uses;                         │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 9│and       │And tho' some folks don't scruple much to │     at     │
 │  │          │  talk of revolution;                     │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │10│per-      │And many would not hesitate to change the │ this time, │
 │  │          │  constitution;                           │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │11│cussion   │Yet this one thing's so cherish'd with a  │ ♉ ♄ ☉ ♊ ☌  │
 │  │          │  laudable affection,—                    │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │12│locks     │This idol of our ancestors, this mirror   │    then    │
 │  │          │  for reflection,—                        │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │13│powder    │That in the very centre of fair London's  │ will it be │
 │  │          │  gorgeous city,                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │14│horns     │It reigns, as in the days of old, to glad │ otherwise; │
 │  │          │  the wise and witty;                     │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │15│and       │Exhibiting the anxious care the Civical   │            │
 │  │          │  Nobility                                │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │16│shot      │Feel for the moral purity of London's     │ ♀ ☍ ♑ ♌ ☋  │
 │  │          │  chaste mobility:                        │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │17│pocket    │A long harangue I'd make of it, but flinch│ which will │
 │  │          │  from your ferocity,                     │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │18│pistols   │Already rous'd up to the highest pitch of │ be worthy  │
 │  │          │  curiosity,                              │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │19│charged   │I'll tell you then what 'tis at once, and │            │
 │  │          │  nothing more shall follow new,—         │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  ☍ ☌ ♄ ☉   │
 │20│with      │It is that rural festival—the FAIR OF ST. │            │
 │  │          │  BARTHOLOMEW                             │            │
 │  │          │                                          │    of a    │
 │21│brandy    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  diligent  │
 │22│thick     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │23│soled     │                                          │ ⊕ ♉ ♂ ☿ ♑  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │24│shoes     │                                          │ searching  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │25│and       │                                          │    into    │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │26│flab-     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  ♂ ♄ ☉ ♈   │
 │27│ber-      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ the causes │
 │28│de-       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │29│gas       │                                          │ ☌ ⚹ ♀ ⊕ ♄  │
 │  │          │.                                         │            │
 │30│kins      │                                          │  thereof.  │
 └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘


 ┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┐
 │                        OCTOBER.                        │      [1835.│
 ├─────────────┬──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┤
 │             │Old Gripes, the brewer, reads with iron phiz           │
 │             │The _Times_, nor cares if hops be "fell" or "riz;"     │
 │             │Nor does the malt-tax cause him hope or fear,          │
 │             │For malt has no connexion with _his_ beer.             │
 ├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │ M│ Season's │              =Odd Matters.=              │  WEATHER.  │
 │ D│  Signs.  │                                          │            │
 ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│Now's     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  We look   │
 │ 2│the       │           THE RETURN TO TOWN.            │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  now for   │
 │ 3│time      │At length, compell'd by emptying purse    │            │
 │  │          │To fly from fleas, and something worse—   │  ♉ ☍ ♈ ♀   │
 │ 4│by        │The oft-sung strain, "Do let us stay      │            │
 │  │          │Another week," is thrown away:            │cool weather│
 │ 5│jingo     │You talk of rain, and chilly weather,     │            │
 │  │          │That cash and days grow short together,   │   ⚹ ♏ ♀    │
 │ 6│for       │That winds, and clouds, and fogs are come,│            │
 │  │          │All hints to haste from Hastings home;    │ ♀ ♃ ⊕ ♎ ♐  │
 │ 7│brewing   │So nought remains but just to get,        │            │
 │  │          │Before you travel, out of debt;           │ which is a │
 │ 8│rare      │Glut all the household birds of prey,     │            │
 │  │          │Pack your remains, and run away.          │ reasonable │
 │ 9│good      │At raffles oft you've tried your fate,    │            │
 │  │          │And let your gains accumulate,            │expectation │
 │10│stingo    │And now you wind up all the fun           │            │
 │  │          │With ten pounds staked, a sovereign won,  │            │
 │11│and       │For which you bear away to town           │  ☊ ♓ ♑ ♌   │
 │  │          │Gilt paper treasures worth a crown.       │            │
 │12│where     │No doubt you've tried, like all the rest, │yet hath it │
 │  │          │A little smuggling for a zest;            │            │
 │13│is he     │Sufficient proof, you've fill'd your jars │ sometimes  │
 │  │          │With Cognac made at Smithfield Bars;      │            │
 │14│who'd     │Your wife has bargain'd for French        │  chanced   │
 │  │          │  flowers,                                │            │
 │  │          │All grown in Hatton Garden's bowers;      │            │
 │15│dare to   │On foreign silks display'd her skill,     │ otherwise, │
 │  │          │While Spitalfields supplied her still.    │            │
 │16│scorn     │And last comes on the dismal day          │            │
 │  │          │When daughters slowly slink away,         │ ♒ ☿ ♊ ♍ ☽  │
 │17│the       │And leave you, warned by gloomy brows,    │            │
 │  │          │With money bills, brought up by spouse,   │and so I do │
 │18│famous    │Debating clauses, which, alas!            │            │
 │  │          │You neither can throw out nor pass.       │ leave you  │
 │19│Sir John  │And when you've managed all to pay,       │            │
 │  │          │You skulk to town the cheapest way;       │ to decide  │
 │20│Barley-   │Put sixpence in the coachman's hand,      │            │
 │  │          │Haggle with Jarvey on the stand,          │  upon the  │
 │21│corn      │And curs'd and bullied, off you sneak,    │            │
 │  │          │To pinch at home for many a week.         │probability │
 │22│let       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ either way │
 │23│others    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │24│boast of  │                                          │   ♀ ♏ ⚹    │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │25│foreign   │                                          │ being not  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │26│wine      │                                          │ unmindful  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │27│a cup     │                                          │ as to what │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │28│of home   │                                          │ the Great  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │29│brew'd    │                                          │ Comet hath │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │30│beer      │                                          │to do in the│
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │31│be mine.  │                                          │  matter.   │
 └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘

[Illustration:

  OCTOBER.
]


                      ADVERTISEMENT EXTRAORDINARY.

BRUTISH HUMBUG COLLEGE OF HEALTH.—The wonderful efficacy of the MORISING
PILLS becomes every day more perspicuous. The discerning Public swallows
'em 'like winking;' and we defies all opposition, and the _Weakly_
attempts of our enemies to _Dispatch_ us. We tells those as calls us
quacks, that, under the blessing of Divine Providence, we glories in our
ignorance; and takes every opportunity of exposing it, for the benefit
of our suffering fellow-creatures. And we have found them a _sovereign_
remedy for ourselves; having, for a long while, been afflicted with an
emptiness of the chest, and a great deficiency of the _yellow-stuff_,
all which terrible symptoms have speedily disappeared; so we feels in
duty bound to propagate our pills to the remotest prosperity.

The following are selected out of several millions of cases, furnished
by a single agent, in a most sensible letter, to prove the
never-to-be-enough-wondered-at wonderful efficacy of the Hy-gee-wo-ian
Medicines.

                  *       *       *       *       *

  MOST RESPECTED SIR,

  Being clearly convinced, from a proper use of my reasoning
  faculties, that it is perfectly consistent with probability and good
  sense to believe that one medicine, made of I don't know what, by I
  don't know who, is certain to cure every disorder, and is equally
  efficacious in all ages and constitutions, from the infant of a week
  old, to the old man of eighty; and being, moreover, equally well
  convinced that it is quite unreasonable to place any sort of trust
  or dependence on the prescriptions of men of scientific education,
  who have merely devoted their whole lives to the medical
  profession;—and, further, being struck with the astounding fact, and
  exceeding likelihood, that an universal panacea could only be
  reserved for those who are quite innocent of all medical knowledge,
  and whose perfect disinterestedness is manifested by their being
  contented with the trifling remuneration derived from the credulity
  of the British public;—I say, Sir, for all these reasons I have
  become a zealous advocate of the Hy-gee-wo-ian medicines.

  Having been appointed your agent, and, therefore, influenced, like
  yourself, by the most disinterested motives, I make it a point to
  recommend them on all occasions, and always in sufficiently large
  doses, on which I observe you lay peculiar stress; and very justly:
  for does it not follow, as a matter of course, that if six pills do
  a certain quantity of good, six thousand must, as a natural
  consequence, do six thousand times as much more good, and the
  patient must be six thousand times the better for them? There are
  some censorious folks who insinuate that the more pills I sell the
  more money I get by them; but I need not assure you that, in this
  respect, my motives are quite as disinterested as your own.

                                          Yours ever to command,
                                                    FRANCIS FLEECE'EM.

  _P.S._—Please to send me a dozen wagon loads of No. 1 Pills, and the
  same of No. 2 Pills, as early as possible. I hand you the following
  cases, which have come under my own knowledge:—

                  *       *       *       *       *

                _To the Haygent for the Morising Pils._

  ONERR'D SUR,

  This hear kums 2 akwaint you that havein lost my happytight i tuk to
  takein your Morising Pils witch i only begun with takein 5 hundred
  hat a time witch had the blessed defect of turnin me inside out and
  I felt in a wery pekooliar citywation witch discurraged me 2
  parsewere and i tuk 1 thousen hat a doze by witch I was turned
  outside in by witch my happytight was kwite discuvvered witch was a
  grate blessin for my whife who is bigg in the famylyar way with 12
  smal childern with grate happytights all threw your pils and I ham
  now Abel to wurk and yarn my 12 shillin a weak So no more hat presnt
  from your

                                        umbel Serv't to command
                                                      GREGORY GUDGEON.

            No. 9,
  Nobody-knows-where Street,
          Jericho,
      Feb. the 32nd, 1836.

                  *       *       *       *       *

  SIR,

  A most respectable friend of mine, at the suggestion of a worthy
  magistrate of Surrey, felt himself constrained to take steps for his
  improvement at that celebrated place of fashionable resort, Brixton
  Tread Mill.

  For a considerable period he was greatly delighted with this elegant
  mode of recreation; and was much struck with the ingenuity of an
  invention by which a person might walk fifty or sixty miles a day,
  without the inconvenience of changing the scene. But, somehow or
  other, being a man of very ardent temperament, he entered so much
  into the spirit of the amusement that—but I scarcely know how to
  describe it, lest I should be suspected of exaggeration, a fault I
  hold in the greatest abhorrence—in short, we have all of us heard of
  pedestrians, after a hard day's travel, complain of having nearly
  walked their feet off; but my unfortunate friend literally did so;
  and so intent was he on his salubrious pastime that he kept walking
  on upon his bare stumps; nor would it have been discovered, had not
  his feet, on finding that they had no longer the power of motion,
  determined that nothing else should have that power; and spitefully
  stopped the mill, by getting entangled in the machinery.

  The kind-hearted governor, who witnessed the occurrence, told my
  friend not to mind such a trifle, but to _morris on_. This happy
  expression brought to his mind your justly famous _Morrissing
  Pills_; and being naturally desrious of recovering his footing, a
  messenger was _morrissed off_ for a supply. At the first dose, he
  only swallowed a dozen boxes, which had no very visible effect; a
  thing not to be wondered at; because, as you justly observe in your
  advertisements, it is impossible to take too many. The following
  night, however, he trebled the quantity; and, next morning, being
  awakened by what seemed the shooting of his corns, he put his hand
  down, and found a pair of full-grown handsome feet, more than twice
  as big as his old ones. I should observe, there was one trifling
  deviation,—the heels were foremost; and, on getting out of bed, and
  attempting to walk towards the mill, he found an invariable tendency
  to proceed in an opposite direction. On the circumstance being
  observed by the governor, he very kindly told him not to afflict
  himself on that head, as he found all his pupils at first had a
  similar propensity; but, by a strict attention to a bread-and-water
  regimen, and a small quantity of blood being drawn from the back by
  one of his amiable assistants, they soon so far recovered, that the
  mere presence of himself, or one of his assistants, was quite
  sufficient to prevent a relapse. My friend suggested that a dose, or
  even the promise of a dose, of the _Morrissing Pills_ would be much
  more certain to prove efficacious; and the governor very politely
  promised to give them a trial, as he confessed, he said, that the
  operation of bleeding was particularly painful to his tender
  feelings.

  As to the inconvenience of the matter in the ordinary business of
  life, my respected friend seems to think that it can make but little
  difference, as he has always gone backward all his life-time;
  indeed, it is a question with him whether it is not an advantage;
  as, instead of mixing in mobs and frays, as he was very much in the
  habit of doing, his feet will now carry him in a clean contrary
  direction, quite out of harm's way.

                                        I remain, respected Sir,
                                                Your gullible Servant,
                                                        GILES GOSLING.

            No. 1,
  Find-it-out-if-you-can Lane,
      No-where Street.

                  *       *       *       *       *

  SIR,

  I beg to inform you that a poor man was blown to atoms by the
  explosion of the Powder Mills on Hounslow Heath. His affectionate
  wife, who happened to be passing at the time, carefully picked up
  the fragments, and placed them together; and, by administering a
  dose of the Universal Medicine, he was able to walk home, and eat a
  hearty dinner of bacon and cabbage.

  If any person should doubt the truth of the above statement, I beg
  you will refer them to me, when I will fully satisfy all inquiries.
  I am easily _found out_,—as _everybody knows me_.

                                             Your obedient Servant,
                                                         GILES GAMMON.

  No. 1, Blarneygig Place,
      Salisbury Plain,
  next door to Stonehenge.

  _P.S._—I forgot to add, that the poor woman, in the hurry of the
  moment, made a small mistake, by placing the head of a donkey, which
  had been blown off by the explosion, upon her husband's shoulders,
  instead of his own; but she says it is of very little consequence,
  as very few of his acquaintance could perceive any difference.

 ┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┐
 │                       NOVEMBER.                        │      [1835.│
 ├─────────────┬──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┤
 │             │Now razors and ropes are in great requisition;         │
 │             │So I humbly propose that 'the House' we petition       │
 │             │(To prevent this sad use of the halter and knife),     │
 │             │That each _felo de se_ be transported _for life_.      │
 ├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │ M│ Season's │              =Odd Matters.=              │  WEATHER.  │
 │ D│  Signs.  │                                          │            │
 ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│fogs      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │By the past │
 │ 2│bogs      │             GUNPOWDER PLOT.              │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ ♅ ☋ ♌ ♃ ♓  │
 │ 3│and       │      'Tis good to remember               │            │
 │  │          │The FIFTH of NOVEMBER,                    │   we do    │
 │ 4│vapours   │Gunpowder, treason, and plot;             │            │
 │  │          │      There's abundance of reason         │ predict of │
 │ 5│blue      │      To think of the treason,            │            │
 │  │          │Then why should it e'er be forgot?        │the future, │
 │ 6│devilry   │                                          │            │
 │  │          │      Our sympathies thrive               │  by which  │
 │ 7│capers    │      By keeping alive                    │            │
 │  │          │Such sweet little hatreds as these;       │    I do    │
 │ 8│good      │      And folks love each other           │            │
 │  │          │      As dear as a brother,               │discern the │
 │ 9│bye       │Whose throat they are ready to squeeze.   │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ likelihood │
 │10│hope      │      I delight in the joys               │            │
 │  │          │      Of the vagabond boys,               │            │
 │11│welcome   │When they're burning Guy Vaux and the     │  ⚹ ♀ ♈ ☍   │
 │  │          │  Pope;                                   │            │
 │  │          │      It the flame keeps alive,           │            │
 │12│rope      │      It makes bigotry thrive,            │   of the   │
 │  │          │And gives it abundance of scope.          │            │
 │13│dangling  │                                          │  weather   │
 │  │          │      'Tis a beautiful truth              │            │
 │14│strangling│      For the minds of our youth,         │   being    │
 │  │          │And will make 'em all Christians indeed;  │            │
 │15│frowning  │      For the Church and the State        │            │
 │  │          │      Thus to teach 'em to hate           │ ♈ ☍ ♉ ♋ ♎  │
 │16│drowning  │All those of a different creed.           │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  in some   │
 │17│oh!       │      It is two hundred years             │            │
 │  │          │      Since our ancestors' fears          │  sort the  │
 │18│Johnny    │Were arous'd by this blood-thirsty fox;   │            │
 │  │          │      But often, since then,              │            │
 │19│Bull      │      Our parliament men                  │   ♈ ☊ ♍    │
 │  │          │Have been awfully _blown up_ by _Vaux_.   │            │
 │20│what a    │                                          │  same as   │
 │  │          │      Now, they cannot deny               │            │
 │21│silly     │      They're afraid of their Guy;        │   usual,   │
 │  │          │And some of them earnestly hope,          │            │
 │22│old       │      He may fancy a swing                │            │
 │  │          │      At the end of a string;             │  ♊ ♒ ☿ ♍   │
 │23│fool!     │And they promise him plenty of rope.      │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ unless the │
 │24│wait      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  Comet do  │
 │25│to the    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  make an   │
 │26│end       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ alteration │
 │27│and       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │therein as I│
 │28│all       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │    have    │
 │  │          │                                          │ heretofore │
 │29│will      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │   noted.   │
 │30│mend      │                                          │            │
 └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘

[Illustration:

  NOVEMBER.
]

[Illustration:

  DECEMBER.
]

 ┌─────────────┬───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
 │1835.]       │                       DECEMBER.                       │
 ├─────────────┼───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
 │             │At length, I've come to the end of my tether;          │
 │             │I've told you all about the weather,                   │
 │             │And a great deal more, take it altogether,             │
 │             │So now my twelvemonth's work is done,                  │
 │             │I'm your obedient,—RIGDUM FUN.                         │
 ├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │ M│ Season's │              =Odd Matters.=              │  WEATHER.  │
 │ D│  Signs.  │                                          │            │
 ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│head      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ Take note, │
 │ 2│back      │               BOXING DAY.                │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ ☌ ♉ ⚹ ♀ ♊  │
 │ 3│belly     │Of all the joys the seasons bring,        │            │
 │  │          │  (And most, alas! have flown away,)      │   frost    │
 │ 4│knees     │I dearly do delight to sing               │            │
 │  │          │  The pleasures of a BOXING DAY.          │  and snow  │
 │ 5│teeth     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │For then a host of smiling folks          │    ♓ ♐     │
 │ 6│toes      │  Are anxious their respects to pay,      │            │
 │  │          │And tell me (would it were a hoax!)       │   may be   │
 │ 7│nose      │  That, 'if I please,' it's BOXING DAY.   │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  expected  │
 │ 8│aching    │Those doleful Waits, who've lain in wait, │            │
 │  │          │  To scare my balmy sleep away,           │this month, │
 │ 9│quaking   │Like bravoes, who've despatch'd their job,│            │
 │  │          │  Now claim reward on BOXING DAY.         │            │
 │10│chattering│                                          │ ⚹ ♄ ♓ ☉ ♄  │
 │  │          │The Milkmaid, who deals out sky-blue,     │            │
 │11│clattering│  (Her tally's double-scor'd, they say,)  │    but     │
 │  │          │With smiling face, of rosy hue,           │            │
 │12│freezing  │  A curtsey drops on BOXING DAY.          │be not sure │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │13│sneezing  │The Baker's man, who brings me bread      │  of their  │
 │  │          │  As heavy as a lump of clay,             │            │
 │14│O rare    │And _bricks_ as hard as any _stone_,      │  coming,   │
 │  │          │  I can't refuse on BOXING DAY.           │            │
 │15│Christmas │                                          │ ♀ ♐ ♄ ♑ ♊  │
 │  │          │As I was walking in the street,           │            │
 │16│fare      │  I met the Butcher with his tray;        │ then shall │
 │  │          │He thrust the corner in my eye,—          │            │
 │17│a fig     │  I'll think of him on BOXING DAY.        │    you     │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │18│for care  │The Scavenger, who plaster'd me,          │   not be   │
 │  │          │  When dress'd in wedding-suit so gay,    │            │
 │19│kiss      │Now hopes I 'von't forget, d'ye see,      │disappointed│
 │  │          │  As how that this here's BOXING DAY.'    │            │
 │20│below     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │My house on fire—no turncock found;       │  ♐ ☽ ♀ ♉   │
 │21│the       │  My house burnt down—he came to say,     │            │
 │  │          │He hop'd that I'd reward his zeal,        │    and     │
 │22│misteltoe │  And think of him on BOXING DAY.         │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  if it be  │
 │23│laugh     │The Bellman, Dustman, Chimney-sweep,      │            │
 │  │          │  Bring up the rear in smart array,       │            │
 │24│quaff     │And all get drunk, and strip to fight,    │ ♃ ☌ ♈ ⊕ ♐  │
 │  │          │  To prove it is a BOXING DAY.            │            │
 │25│never     │                                          │fine summer │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │26│fear      │                                          │  weather,  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │27│with      │                                          │    then    │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │28│merry     │                                          │I say again │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │29│glee      │                                          │   ♐ ♀ ☉    │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │30│conclude  │                                          │bethink you │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │31│the year  │                                          │of the Comet│
 └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘


                              VALEDICTION.

 Farewell, my merry gentlemen,—let nothing you dismay;
 But take good heart, for tho' we part, we'll meet another day;
 I hope, next year, when, never fear, I'll have enough to say,
             And bring tidings of comfort and joy.

 To start fair game has been my aim, and make imposture smart;
 To raise a laugh at many a calf the object of my heart,
 And "shoot at Folly as she flies," and fix her with my dart;
             And it's all for your comfort and joy.

 Now don't despise my prophecies, and think 'em only jokes,
 They're just as true, I promise you, as those of other folks;
 And while old MOORE is such a bore, 'tis harmless sure to hoax,
             For it's all for your comfort and joy.

 "Let TURKEY fear the Christmas near"—and ducks, if they are young,
 And apropos of _Quacks_,—the _game_ is up with Doctor Long,
 But tho' we've lost the _rubber_, we've in _tricks_ been pretty strong,
             And it's all for your comfort and joy.

 We've toll'd the bell that rings the knell of Morison and Co.,
 And _floor'd_ the funny Chancellor, with all his Penny Show,
 Who veers about to show the folk which way the wind doth blow,
             And it's all for your comfort and joy.

 Our most uncommon Commons, and our very peerless Peers,
 In clearing off _old scores_, have burnt the house about their ears;
 Of such a nest of phœnixes I own I had my fears,
             But 'twas all for their comfort and joy.

 Now let not those who've 'scaped my blows believe that I am fickle,
 For many a "Pure," who looks demure, I've put a rod in pickle,
 And if I'm here another year their backs I'll smartly tickle,
             So there's tidings of comfort and joy.


                                =Moral.=

                           WHILE WE VENERATE
                    WHAT IS DESERVING OF VENERATION,
                        LET US NOT FORGET, THAT
             QUACKERY, KNAVERY, BIGOTRY, AND SUPERSTITION,
                              ALWAYS MERIT
                       EXPOSURE AND CASTIGATION.

[Illustration]



                                  THE
                             COMIC ALMANACK
                               FOR 1836.


[Illustration]


                             PROCLAMATION.

            Whereas some evil-minded folks,
            It ill becomes to crack such jokes,
            Have made a most unseemly rout,
            By spreading false reports about,
            That FRANCIS MOORE, the fam'd _Physician_,
            Is _still alive_, in sound condition;
            And all we said about his dying,
            Last year, was nothing else but lying;
            Our gravity was all a hoax,—
            Our sober sayings only jokes—
            'Twas but a trick to gain his pelf,
            And lay the Conj'ror on the shelf,
            That he might be as much forgotten
            As tho' _in earnest_ dead and rotten;
            And thereby fill with consternation
            The _ancient female population_.
            To prove this true, they say that MOORE,
            Who, they assert, is _not_ "NO MORE,"
            Gives out predictions quite as clever,
            And full of sense and truth,—_as ever_!
            Shade of the mighty Seer! look down,
            And blast the wretches with thy frown!
            _Thou_ know'st on _us_ thy mantle fell;
            Thou know'st, too, that it fits us well.

            But baser caitiffs go much further,
            And tax us with committing _murther_!
            They swear we burst into his room,
            And quickly seal'd his dreadful doom;
            For that we hocuss'd first his drink,
            Then poison'd him with _writing ink_;
            And having thrown him on the floor,
            We basely _burk'd_ the gracious MOORE!

              They vow we did this bloody deed
            That we might to his fame succeed;
            But good, they say, can't come of ill,
            For let us do whate'er we will,
            We never shall,—and that is plain,—
            The _fools_ or the _old women_ gain.

            Now, to confirm this idle talk,
            They swear they've seen his spectre walk;
            And that he's got a strange vagary,
            At times, to be quite STATIONARY,
            And haunt a certain place, where he
            Affects Old Women's COMPANY,
            Who, spite of all we've sung or said,
            Cannot believe that he is dead,
            But to persuade themselves they try
            That FRANCIS MOORE can _never_ die!

            Now, having gather'd facts like these
            (Enough to cause one's blood to freeze),
            We've issued forth this Proclamation
            To all the lieges of the nation,
            (Surmounted by MOORE'S arms and crest,
            Of which by right we've 'come possest,)
            To seize the knave, and maul him sore,
            Who passes off for FRANCIS MOORE;
            (That is, if any such there be,
            Of which we're much in dubity)
            For FRANCIS MOORE, whom we succeed,
            Is _very—very dead_, indeed.

            But should it prove a real ghost,
            Who, with a _Fool's-cap_, takes his _Post_,
            To grasp the _Crown_ we've fairly got,
            We warn him he shall go to _Pot_,
            And in the Red Sea soon be _laid_;
            Or to his _warm_ berth posted back,
            Where he'll be _hotpress'd_ in a crack,
            Unless his exit's quickly made;
            For none but nincompoops and fools
            Let "dead men push them from their stools."

                  (Signed)                 RIGDUM FUNNIDOS.

 ┌──────────────────────────────────────────────────┬──────────────────┐
 │                     JANUARY.                     │            [1836.│
 ├─────────────┬────────────────────────────────────┴──────────────────┤
 │             │"Kind Reader!" (as old Francis always said,)           │
 │             │Beware of counterfeits, for Frank is dead;             │
 │             │Some Quack survives—_physician_—if he will,            │
 │             │To swallow, of _our physic_, many a pill.              │
 │             │We'll spread the caustic 'midst the town's applause,   │
 │             │And thank the public that the blister _draws_.         │
 ├──┬──────────┼────────────────────────────────────┬──────────────────┤
 │ M│ Season's │           =Odd Matters.=           │     WEATHER.     │
 │ D│  Signs.  │                                    │                  │
 ├──┼──────────┼────────────────────────────────────┼──────────────────┤
 │ 1│When it   │                                    │                  │
 │  │          │                                    │        My        │
 │ 2│freezes   │           "HARD FROST."            │                  │
 │  │          │                                    │     profound     │
 │ 3│and       │The day is clear, the frost is      │                  │
 │  │          │  hard,—                            │                  │
 │  │          │  I very much incline,              │                  │
 │ 4│blows     │As I'm a _dab_, to have a _skate_   │      △ ⚹ ☉       │
 │  │          │  Upon the SERPENTINE.              │                  │
 │ 5│take      │                                    │                  │
 │  │          │There's Mr. Tait,—he cuts an eight; │prognostifications│
 │ 6│care of   │  He cannot cut a nine;             │                  │
 │  │          │And I could cut as good a _figure_  │                  │
 │ 7│your      │  On the SERPENTINE.                │      of the      │
 │  │          │                                    │                  │
 │ 8│nose      │I _hate_ the _eight_ of Mr. Tait,   │                  │
 │  │          │  For he's no friend of mine;       │     weather      │
 │ 9│that it   │He used me once so ungenteely       │                  │
 │  │          │  On the SERPENTINE.                │                  │
 │10│doesn't   │                                    │                  │
 │  │          │For in the _tête_ of Mr. Tait       │    ☿ △ ♂ ☉ ⚹     │
 │11│get       │  There harbour'd a design,         │                  │
 │  │          │To break the ice with Sophy Price   │       for        │
 │12│froze     │  Upon the SERPENTINE.              │                  │
 │  │          │                                    │     the past     │
 │13│and       │He cut in there, and cut me out     │                  │
 │  │          │  Of my sweet Valentine,            │       year       │
 │14│wrap up   │Which cut quite cut me to the heart,│                  │
 │  │          │  Upon the SERPENTINE.              │                  │
 │15│your      │                                    │                  │
 │  │          │She cut me, while I thought that I  │     □ ☌ ⚹ ☉      │
 │16│toes in   │  Was cutting such a shine,         │                  │
 │  │          │By cutting out her pretty name      │     have all     │
 │17│warm      │  Upon the SERPENTINE.              │                  │
 │  │          │                                    │      proved      │
 │18│worsted   │So, Billy, bring my polish'd        │                  │
 │  │          │  skates,—                          │                  │
 │  │          │  My love I wont resign;            │   so correct,    │
 │19│hose.     │She meets her _knight_, I know,     │                  │
 │  │          │  _to-day_,                         │                  │
 │  │          │  Upon the SERPENTINE.              │                  │
 │20│At        │                                    │                  │
 │  │          │And if my _sweet_ wont follow       │       □ ♄        │
 │  │          │  _suite_,                          │                  │
 │21│night     │  But still my _suit_ decline,      │                  │
 │  │          │The thaw I'll wait, to seal my fate,│    □ ☿ ♄ △ ♂     │
 │22│ere you   │  All _in_ the SERPENTINE.          │                  │
 │  │          │                                    │       and        │
 │23│slip      │                                    │                  │
 │  │          │                                    │      I have      │
 │24│into      │                                    │                  │
 │  │          │                                    │                  │
 │25│bed       │                                    │                  │
 │  │          │                                    │      ☉ □ △       │
 │26│you       │                                    │                  │
 │  │          │                                    │     herein,      │
 │27│may       │                                    │                  │
 │  │          │                                    │    as well as    │
 │28│sip a     │                                    │                  │
 │  │          │                                    │                  │
 │29│can of    │                                    │                  │
 │  │          │                                    │     ☍ ☌ △ ♄      │
 │30│good      │                                    │                  │
 │  │          │                                    │      in all      │
 │31│flip.     │                                    │                  │
 └──┴──────────┴────────────────────────────────────┴──────────────────┘

[Illustration:

  JANUARY.—"Hard Frost."
]


                              SLANGOLOGY.

        "With many holiday and _court-like_ phrase—"

                            _Shakespeare's Henry IV., Part I._

 MISS ARABELLA WILHELMINA WIGGINs is the pattern of gentility:
 She never utters vulgar words, but talks just like nobility.
 I met her at Vauxhall, last year, and she gave me a sad relation
 About Miss Briggs: I recollect it every word;—but here's her own
    narration:
 "Oh, dear! my dear Miss Popkins! have you heard what befel Miss B.?
 (I wish, Papa, you'd get _up to snuff_ the lights; one can hardly see:
 Oh, la! you've made 'em _flare up so_, I declare we are quite in a
    blaze:
 And, bless me! there's all the people staring at us, all in amaze!)
 I'll tell you, while Papa is taking his _punch_; _his pipkin_ he calls
    the bowl,
 (You _make yourself scarce_ any punch at home, Papa; so I suppose
    you'll drink the whole).
 I'm sure he will, Miss P.; and even then he wont have quench'd his
    drouth.
 (I really wonder, Pa', how you can pour so much punch _down in the
    mouth_.)
 But how I rattle on! quite forgetting all about Miss B.
 You must know we were on a visit at a country cousin's; and after tea
 We stroll'd about with Mr. Timbs, and Mr. Figgins, and Mr. Oddy;—
 I declare _there he goes with his eye out_-staring every body.
 Poor fellow! he has but one, for the other's made of glass;
 'Twas a sad accident; and I'll tell you how it came to pass:—
 One night, he went out rabbit-_shooting_; _the moon_ was shining
    bright;
 His gun was overloaded and bursted; and so one eye lost its sight.
 Well, Miss Briggs is a very bold girl; as bold a girl as one knows;
 And as we were walking along, the laundress caught _my eye; and_
 '_Betty Martin_,' says Miss B., '_where do you hang out_ your clothes?'
 She came to a well after that; and, really, I am almost ashamed to
    tell,
 But, upon my word, she behav'd exceedingly ill about that well.
 She began to _kick the bucket_; and to a man who was chopping down a
    tree,
 She said: 'What are you with that _axe about_?' which was very rude
    indeed of Miss B.;
 And when he left off chopping, she said, 'Why don't you _cut your
    stick_?'
 The man was just then chopping a piece of wood that was thick.
 Now this made him quite confus'd; and in his hurry his skill to show
    off,
 He made a slip with his axe, and chopped poor Miss Brigg's little toe
    off.
 The shock gave me such a terrible pain all over _my eyes and limbs_,
 That I really should have fainted, if it hadn't been for that dear Mr.
    Timbs.
 Poor Frederick Figgins was so affected that I vow he began to cry;
 I'm sure he did, for I was close to him, and I saw a _drop in his eye_.
 He's a _nice young man_; and _I shouldn't wonder_ if he soon married
    Miss Briggs:
 Her father is a coarsish man, and says he shall, _please the pigs_.
 He wasn't very gracious, tho', at first, to Mr. Figgins;
 For when he ask'd his consent, he said to him (I had the whole story
    from Mr. Higgins)
 '_How are you off? for soap_ and candles, and such-like, got me all my
    money;
 And for my daughter to marry a poor man wouldn't be vastly funny.
 _How's your mother_ left you; or have you your fortune to get?
 If you have _I wish you may get it_ soon; but I can't let you marry
    Miss Bet;
 But while I'm describing his bluntness, I'm wand'ring away from my
    point.
 The limbs of my relation are indeed terribly out of joint.
 Well, Mr. Figgins help'd Miss B. home to _hop_: _the twig_, which
    happen'd to lay across her foot,
 Sav'd her other toes, to be sure, but there was a terrible large gash
    in her boot.
 But poor Mr. F.! how he _fretted_! _his fat_ cheeks than a mummy's were
    thinner;
 He never could eat any breakfast, and seldom could eat any dinner.
 His eyes were once bright as a _star_: _the glaze_ on them now was
    quite ghostly;
 A cloud seem'd to _darken his day_—_light_some and gay he'd been
    mostly.
 A party he join'd at Vauxhall; but its gaieties fail'd to delight him:
 He did nothing but swallow rack-punch; as to eating, 'twas vain to
    invite him.
 He call'd to his friend: '_Jemmy Johnson, squeeze me_ a lemon;' and
    turning to me then,
 He said, in a voice that quite shock'd me, and looking as wild as a
    heathen:
 'My spirits I cannot _keep up; your pluck_'d flowers droop slower than
    I do;
 I'm sure that I make _no mistake_,—my fate will be that of poor Dido.'
 (I declare I am talking pentameters; quite forgetting you're not a Blue
    Stocking;
 But that I am sure you'll excuse.)—Well, isn't the story quite
    shocking?
 Miss Briggs, tho', got quite well at last; to the dolefuls he bade
    adieu quickly;
 Yet a long while he talk'd of her death, though he no longer look'd
    mournful and sickly.
   '_All round my hat_, while I liv'd,' he said, 'a crape hatband I
      should have worn,—
 _A shocking bad hat_, to be sure; but just fit for a lover forlorn.
 Think what would have been my despair, with no consolation to go to!
 But tho' I have not lost her quite, yet, alas! I have lost her in
    _toe-toe_.'"


                       Paragraphs Extraordinary.

[ADVERTISEMENT.]—We never admit puffs into our paper in any disguise or
under any circumstances, for we are sure that "the man who would make"
_a puff_ "would pick a pocket." It is a love for veracity alone that
induces us to state, that MONSIEUR CHARLATAN'S TUSKOLATUM MYSTIFICATUM
for renewing decayed TEETH is the most wonderful and surprisingly
efficacious invention ever invented. How will those ancient maidens
rejoice, who have only a colt's tooth in their heads, when they are
told, that by sowing this panacea in their gums overnight, a fine crop
of full-grown grinders will sprout up by the following morning! We speak
from our own experience; and whereas, before we used this extraordinary
invention, our great anxiety was how to get teeth for our food, the only
matter that now troubles us is how to get food for our teeth.

                  *       *       *       *       *

ACCIDENTS.—We are happy to state that there is a great diminution in the
number of accidents in the past week. Only 250 persons have been drowned
by steam-boats; 320 women and children burnt to death by their clothes
catching fire; 560 run over by omnibusses and cabs; 252 poisoned by
taking oxalic acid instead of salts; 360 scalded to death by the
bursting of steam-boilers; 200 blown to atoms by the explosion of
powder-mills; and about 100—there or thereabouts—stabbed by drunken
soldiers, off duty; all which evinces a great increase of vigilance,
carefulness, and humanity, highly creditable to all parties concerned.

[Illustration:

  FEBRUARY.—"Transfer Day at the Bank."
]

 ┌─────────────┬───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
 │1836.]       │                       FEBRUARY.                       │
 ├─────────────┼───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
 │             │Look, Mrs. B——, what a crowd I see,                    │
 │             │    And the bells they make such a clatter;            │
 │             │And the people run, and I hear a gun!                  │
 │             │    Whatever can be the matter?                        │
 │             │                                                       │
 │             │Mrs. C——, my dear, it's no good, I fear,               │
 │             │    For us honest women and our spouses,               │
 │             │For the people say, the King's going to-day,           │
 │             │    To open two _very bad houses_.                     │
 ├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │ M│ Season's │              =Odd Matters.=              │  WEATHER.  │
 │ D│  Signs.  │                                          │            │
 ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│In        │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 2│this      │             "TRANSFER DAY."              │   other    │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 3│gay       │As I was walking past the Bank,           │  matters,  │
 │  │          │  (I know not why I stroll'd that way,)   │            │
 │ 4│month     │I saw a lady tall and lank,               │    ☽ ☍     │
 │  │          │  With golden ringlets mix'd with grey;   │            │
 │ 5│I         │And as she tripp'd, or strove to trip,    │ ☋ ♅ ♑ ♎ ⚹  │
 │  │          │  Adown the steps, so light and gay,      │            │
 │ 6│would     │The greasy granite made her slip,         │     so     │
 │  │          │  And down she fell on TRANSFER DAY.      │            │
 │ 7│not       │                                          │  worthily  │
 │  │          │I rais'd her up with gallant air;         │            │
 │ 8│choose    │  For I'm a Major on half-pay,            │  stepped   │
 │  │          │Who only live to serve the fair,          │            │
 │ 9│to        │  At any time, in any way:                │            │
 │  │          │And while she blush'd a purple hue,       │            │
 │10│walk      │  Her eyes obliquely shot a ray,          │ ♃ ☉ ♐ ♋ ♉  │
 │  │          │Which seem'd to say, "You will not rue    │            │
 │11│the       │  Your service on a TRANSFER DAY."        │  into the  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │12│streets   │And while the glance she threw at me      │shoes of my │
 │  │          │  Was thro' my heart a-making way;        │            │
 │13│in        │I straight began a colloquy,              │            │
 │  │          │  And to myself I thus did say:           │            │
 │14│dancing   │If tradesmen, when their bills they bring,│            │
 │  │          │  Would be contented with _half-pay_;     │   ♊ ☿ ⚹    │
 │15│shoes     │I'd soar aloft on freedom's wing,         │            │
 │  │          │  Nor care a rush for TRANSFER DAY.       │  renowned  │
 │16│nor       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │But needy men the needful need;           │            │
 │17│would     │  So, spite of ringlets golden grey,      │            │
 │  │          │And eyes that squint, I'll take the hint, │    ☍ ☿     │
 │18│I         │  Nor throw the lucky chance away.        │            │
 │  │          │Full soon I found—ah! pleasing sound!—    │predecessor,│
 │19│for       │  With wealth she could my love repay;    │            │
 │  │          │No longer mute, I urg'd my suit,          │            │
 │20│the       │  Upon that very TRANSFER DAY.            │            │
 │  │          │                                          │   ♀ ♂ ☿    │
 │21│world     │I leave untold our courtship fond:—       │            │
 │  │          │  I made her Mrs. Major Cox;              │ the great  │
 │22│be        │And in return for Hymen's _bond_,         │            │
 │  │          │  She kindly placed me in the _stocks_.   │  FRANCIS   │
 │23│seen      │Her heart is good, her temper mild;       │            │
 │  │          │  She rules with more than _sov'reign_    │   MOORE,   │
 │  │          │  sway;                                   │            │
 │24│to        │Nor have I thought myself beguil'd,       │            │
 │  │          │  Or once regretted TRANSFER DAY.         │ =Defunct=, │
 │25│trip      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │26│along     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  ♊ ☌ ⊕ ♓   │
 │27│in        │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │which shoes,│
 │28│light     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │by-the-bye, │
 │29│nankeen.  │                                          │            │
 └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘


               _Humbuggum Ass-trologicum, pro Anno 1836._

  _VOX MULTORUM, VOX STULTORUM: the Voice of the Many is the Voice of
    a Zany.—It brawleth at all Places and Seasons._

[Illustration]

 COURTEOUS READER,

I DO herewith, present thee with an hieroglyphic, after the accustomed
usage of my lamented precursor and prototype, FRANCIS MOORE, defunct. It
prefigureth a mighty change now lying in the womb of futurity, and which
doubtless will be brought forth in due season by the great man-midwife,
Time.

                  *       *       *       *       *

And now do I most entreatingly invite thee to cast a Parthian glance at
my foregone prophetic lucubrations, and especially towards that
symbolical prefiguration or _hieroglyphic_, by which I brightly shadowed
forth _a certain notable event_, the fulfilment whereof did so closely
follow the heels of the prediction as to cause the multitude to marvel;—
and when thou hast sufficiently pondered thereupon, I would ask thee
whether thou dost not in verity deem me a fit and worthy successor of
the renowned FRANCIS MOORE, defunct?

I do thus throw myself on thy candour, because certain of mine
adversaries do most unworthily insinuate, that my astrological skill is
stark naught; that I hold no correspondence with the stars; that I am no
more acquainted with the Great Bear than with the Great Mogul; that I
gather no signs of the Times from the signs of the Zodiac; and, in
brief, that I am _no conjuror_! My only familiar, they affirm, is a
little, insignificant, diminutive thing, called _Common Sense_, whose
aid any one may have if he chooses; that the said _Common Sense_
collects together certain things called _Past Events_, with which he
compares _Present Appearances_, and they help him to _Future
Probabilities_; they are then put into the crucible of _Ordinary
Judgment_; and my sagacious and veracious prophecies and hieroglyphics
are the result of this simple alchemy!

CANDID READER! Let thine own discretion decide, whether logical judgment
or astro-logical fudgement be the art which influenceth my lucubrations.

                  *       *       *       *       *


                       INVITATION OF "THE SELECT"
                                   To
                           Bartholomew Fair.

       COME, buffers and duffers, and dashers and smashers,
         Come, tag, rag, and bobtail, attend to my call;
       Ye pickpockets, sally from court, lane, and alley,
         The LORD MAYOR in person has open'd the ball.
       Come, Billingsgate sinners, and cat and dog skinners,
         And play up a game to make Decency stare:
       A fig for propriety, sense, and sobriety!
         They never were known at fam'd BARTLEMY FAIR.

       Come, nightmen and dustmen, and rovers and drovers;
         Come, Whitechapel butchers, and join in the throng!
       With marrow-bones and cleavers, delight the coal-heavers,
         While broken-nose Billy shall snuffle a song.
       Ye lazy mechanics, who dearly love one day,
         For wives and for children who never know care;
       Who reckon Saint Monday more holy than Sunday,
         Come and spend all your earnings at BARTLEMY FAIR.

       Ye wives and ye widows! here's plenty of bidders;
         Come hither, and each get a swain for herself;
       To deck yourselves gaily, and grace the Old Bailey,
         The pawnbrokers' shops will lend plenty of pelf.
       Ye youth of the city! ye servant-maids pretty!
         Ye unmarried damsels with characters rare!
       Come here and be jolly, for virtue's a folly;
         So, come and be ruin'd at BARTLEMY FAIR.

 ┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┐
 │                         MARCH.                         │      [1836.│
 ├─────────────┬──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┤
 │             │Some ready cash Dick wants to borrow                   │
 │             │    About this time—perhaps for rent;                  │
 │             │But like most folks, he finds with sorrow              │
 │             │    He's just too late—it's always _Lent_.             │
 ├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │ M│ Season's │              =Odd Matters.=              │  WEATHER.  │
 │ D│  Signs.  │                                          │            │
 ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│Blowing   │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 2│growing   │          "DAY AND NIGHT EQUAL."          │  although  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 3│here's a  │  'Tis SIX O'CLOCK;—and now the Sun       │  ☊ ♅ ♌ ♑   │
 │  │          │His daily course begins to run;           │            │
 │ 4│clatter!  │While Folly's children slink away,        │  somewhat  │
 │  │          │Like bats who dread the glare of day,     │            │
 │ 5│what the  │From Masquerade or Fancy Ball,            │   clumsy   │
 │  │          │Where pleasure reign'd in Fashion's Hall; │            │
 │ 6│deuce     │And sneak along, like guilty creatures,   │            │
 │  │          │With tir'd limbs and haggard features.    │            │
 │ 7│can be    │                                          │ ♄ ☉ ♊ ♃ ☌  │
 │  │          │  The sons of toil, as they come near 'em,│            │
 │ 8│the       │With coarse-spun jokes begin to jeer 'em; │  withal,   │
 │  │          │While, _au contraire_, each motley hero,  │            │
 │ 9│matter?   │Whose wit is now far under zero,          │            │
 │  │          │With 'not a gibe to mock their grinning,' │            │
 │10│tiles     │Has but a sorry chance of winning.        │  ♏ ♐ ♀ ♎   │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │11│and       │  The Clown, with phiz so dull and sad,   │ do fit me  │
 │  │          │Looks grave as Ghost of Hamlet's Dad;     │            │
 │12│chimney   │And Falstaff, now he's lost his stuffing, │    with    │
 │  │          │Looks lean as lath, and pale as muffin;   │            │
 │13│pots      │While Harlequin, half muzz'd with wine,   │ marvellous │
 │  │          │Don't care a rush for Columbine,          │            │
 │14│come      │But leaves her, like a careless loon,     │ accuracy:  │
 │  │          │To draggle home with Pantaloon;           │            │
 │15│down      │And Romeo, with empty purse,              │            │
 │  │          │Abandons Juliet to her nurse.             │            │
 │16│and pay   │                                          │ ♂ ♌ ♓ ♄ ♑  │
 │  │          │  The child of labour, when he sees       │            │
 │17│their     │Such silly spectacles as these,—          │ for these  │
 │  │          │How dissipation is repented,—             │            │
 │18│duty      │May with his station be contented;        │  reasons,  │
 │  │          │For mete them both with equal measure,    │            │
 │19│to the    │He'll find the hardest toil is pleasure.  │   I say,   │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │20│crown,    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │21│while     │                                          │    ♓ ☊     │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │22│surly     │                                          │it behoveth │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │23│north     │                                          │   me to    │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │24│usurps    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │25│the       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ ♓ ♌ ♄ ☌ ☊  │
 │26│south     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ be tender  │
 │27│and       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │   of my    │
 │28│makes a   │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │29│dusthole  │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  ☉ ☿ ♂ ☽   │
 │30│of your   │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │31│mouth     │                                          │  ♂ ♊ ☿ ☽   │
 └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘

[Illustration:

  MARCH.—"Day and Night nearly equal."
]


                    "THE LAY OF THE LAST" ALDERMAN.

                            I.

        The feast was over on LORD MAYOR'S DAY;
        The waiters had clear'd the viands away;
        The Common Councilmen all were gone,
        And every Alderman,—saving _one_;
        Who to gorge and guzzle no longer able,
        Had sunk to repose beneath the table,
        And, sooth'd by his own melodious snore,
        Lay calmly stretch'd on the Guildhall floor.

        But he lay not long in the arms of sleep,
        Ere a sound, that caus'd his flesh to creep,
        Startled him up from his _downy_ bed,
        And caus'd him to raise his aching head;
        When oh, what a sight then met his eyes,
        And chill'd his soul with sad surprise!
               *       *       *       *       *
        He bawl'd aloud when the scene was o'er,
        Which awoke the porter, who open'd the door.
        When a bottle of sherry had loosen'd his tongue,
        'Twas thus the LATEST ALDERMAN sung:—

                            II.

        I was rous'd from my sleep by a frightful crash,
        As if all the crockery'd gone to smash;
          And I straight beheld a terrible form,—
            At the end of the hall it took its stand,
            With a swingeing besom in its hand,
        And shouted out "REFORM!"

                            III.

        Then stalking to me, it thus did say,
        "Gone is the glory of LORD MAYOR'S DAY!
                Gone—gone, for ever!
                To come back never.
        The Corporation Reform Bill's past,
            And ev'ry ward is _Cheap_;
        The City of London they'll squeeze at last,
            And scatter her golden heap.

                            IV.

        "_Portsoken_ no more _Port_ shall _soke_,
            For guzzling they'll a_Bridge_ it."
        (I thought this quite beyond a joke,
            And it put me in a fidget.)
        "No 'fair round bellies with capon lin'd
            Your Aldermen shall sport;
        They may double the _Cape_, if they feel inclin'd,
            But they never must touch at _Port_.

                            V.

        "The Worshipful Court—so fate ordains—
        Shall look like skeletons hanging _in chains_;
        They'll need no gowns, for they'll get so thin,
        They may wrap themselves round in their own loose skin;
                 And then in vain
                 Shall they complain,
                Who cannot bear the shock;
              _Champagne_ shall turn to _real pain_,
                And _Turtle_ change to _mock_.
              No calipash or calipee
              Their longing eyes again shall see;
                No more green fat!
              To them shall _ven'son_ still be _deer_;
              Their stout shall turn to thin small beer,
                Sour and flat.

                            VI.

        "No lamps shall blaze in this spacious hall,
        But farthing rushlights, lank and small,
        Some cook-shop's dining-room shall grace,
        Where _Mister_ Mayor, with sword and mace,
            And all the Corporation sinners,
        By city contract clothed and fed,
        Shall dine at eighteen pence a-head,
            And feel quite grateful for their dinners.
        While the armour-man, like a turtle starv'd.
            Shall rattle his bones in his iron shell,
        And no more shall feast on baron of beef,
            But _stand_ content with the cook-shop smell!"

                            VII.

            Thus having said his terrible say,
            The horrible spectre stalk'd away,
                And left me in the blues;
            And as across the Hall he pass'd,
            E'en Gog and Magog stood aghast,
                And trembled in their shoes.

                            VIII.

                  Oh, dreadful night!
                  Oh, fearful sight!
            To see that sight, and hear that say,
            An Alderman's soul it may well dismay.
                  I felt as opprest
                  With a pain in my chest,
            And as brimful of terror and ills,
              As if I had eaten some venison old,
              Or swallow'd a gallon of turtle cold,
            Or been poison'd by Morison's Pills.

                            IX.

            I tried to rise, and I scream'd a scream,
              The man at the gate came staggering in—
              "To be sure I did, for I heard a din;
        And your worship gave such a terrible snore,
        While you laid on your back on the Guildhall floor,
            That it woke you up from your _dream_!"

[Illustration:

  Wine in a Ferment and Spirits in Hot Water.
]

[Illustration:

  _APRIL._—Greenwich Park.
]

 ┌─────────────┬───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
 │1836]        │                        APRIL.                         │
 ├─────────────┼───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
 │             │Well, neighbour, what do the papers say                │
 │             │    About "The Wisdom collective?"                     │
 │             │Oh! their Honours are busied by night and day          │
 │             │    With a list of The Lords elective:                 │
 │             │For like old London Bridge, they declare, for years    │
 │             │They've been sadly obstructed by too many _peers_.     │
 ├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │ M│ Season's │              =Odd Matters.=              │  WEATHER.  │
 │ D│  Signs.  │                                          │            │
 ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│Sloshy    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 2│squashy   │             "EASTER MONDAY."             │  budding   │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 3│are       │              Can poet's quill,           │ ♄ ♊ ♌ ☿ ⚹  │
 │  │          │              Or painter's skill,         │            │
 │ 4│the       │                Depict the joy            │            │
 │  │          │              Of 'Prentice Boy,           │    ☉ ♊     │
 │ 5│streets,  │          On that bright fun day,         │            │
 │  │          │            EASTER MONDAY?                │reputation, │
 │ 6│sloppy    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │Can rhetorician or logician               │            │
 │ 7│droppy    │Describe with aught that's like precision │   ☉ ♄ ♊    │
 │  │          │The rapture that dilates his soul,        │            │
 │ 8│all       │Now his own master, and beyond control?   │    and     │
 │  │          │  His fancy soars aloft, like a           │            │
 │  │          │  sky-rocket!                             │            │
 │ 9│one       │          Where shall he go?              │ not to put │
 │  │          │          He doesn't know,                │            │
 │10│meets;    │Although "the world's before him where to │  the same  │
 │  │          │  choose,"                                │            │
 │  │          │And he's got on a bran new pair of shoes, │            │
 │11│Haber-    │  And two bright shillings in his         │            │
 │  │          │  trousers' pocket.                       │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │12│dashers   │  Perhaps he'll join the merry throng     │ ♄ ♊ ☿ ♂ ⚹  │
 │  │          │  Who love the dance and song;            │            │
 │13│mantua-   │  Or, _drawn_ by ASTLEY'S _horses_, go,   │    into    │
 │  │          │  And "struggling for the foremost row,"  │            │
 │14│makers    │  Enjoy the feats of fam'd Ducrow;        │  jeopardy  │
 │  │          │  Or at the CIRCUS, as they us'd to call  │            │
 │  │          │  it,                                     │            │
 │15│look as   │    Clamour and bawl it;                  │     by     │
 │  │          │        And, like a little savage,        │            │
 │16│grave as  │        Shout "Bravo Davidge!"            │            │
 │  │          │Who, Richard-like, disdains to yield,     │  ⚹ ♊ ☉ ♄   │
 │17│under-    │And "saddles _white Surrey_ for the       │            │
 │  │          │  field."                                 │            │
 │  │          │  Or else some fellow-'prentice tells     │ any crude  │
 │18│takers,   │  The joys he'd _quaff_ at Sadler's       │            │
 │  │          │  _Wells_.                                │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  or hasty  │
 │19│for       │While these temptations try to start him, │            │
 │  │          │A sudden fancy comes athwart him,—        │            │
 │20│shopping  │"Well, only think!—why, I declare,        │            │
 │  │          │I'd quite forgot there's GREENWICH FAIR!  │  ☉ ♂ ☌ ☍   │
 │21│ladies    │And won't I have a precious lark          │            │
 │  │          │Down One-Tree Hill in Greenwich Park!"    │ guesses or │
 │22│forced    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │speculations│
 │23│to        │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │24│house     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │   ☉ ☿ ♂    │
 │25│now       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ thereupon, │
 │26│stay      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ as is the  │
 │27│at home   │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │28│to        │                                          │ ☉ ♂ ♃ ♄ ♊  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │29│worry     │                                          │    wont    │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │30│spouse.   │                                          │  of those  │
 └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘


             =Advertisements and Paragraphs Extraordinary.=

EXTRAORDINARY CIRCUMSTANCE.—Yesterday, a shabbily-dressed, half-genteel,
poetical-looking sort of man, suddenly fell down in one of the
gin-palaces in St. Giles's; after having, as it was supposed, put an end
to his existence, by swallowing a quartern of _Deady's_ Best. On taking
him, however, to the Station House, and administering large doses of
cold water (to which his stomach manifested a particular antipathy by
repeatedly serving it with an ejectment), he was sufficiently recovered
to give some account of himself; but the following lines, written on the
back of a dirty tobacco paper, found in his pocket, will sufficiently
explain the cause of the rash act. It will be seen that he was a man of
_letters_, tho' (judging from his reservedness) of very few _words_.

                      _To Robert Short, Esq. M.P._

            DEAR BOB,—I know that U'll XQQQ
            The wailings of a mournful MUUU.
              While U, my friend, are at your EEE,
            My creditors I can't apPPP:
            I'm CD,—drooping to DK,
            With not a sous my debts to pay.
            So lean a wight you ne'er did C,—
            I look just like an F-I-G.
              My purse is MT, it is true;
            But don't suppose I NV you:
            I O U nothing but good-will,
            And that I mean 2 O U still.
            But if my motive U'd descry
            For writing this, I'll tell U Y:
            B 4 'tis long, I hope for peace;
            And when U hear of my DCCC,
            I beg, to show your love for me,
            U'll write your Poet's L-E-G.
            I'm sure that U'll indite it well,
            For in such matters you XL.
            Say, "E was once a R T fellow,
            "But all his 'green leaves soon turn'd yellow,'
            "He didn't mind his PPP and QQQ,
            "But Plutus left, to woo the MUUU:
            "And tho' he courted all the IX,
            "He found them far too poor to dine;
            "Nay, more, the very Graces III
            "Could scarce afford a cup of T.
            "So here he lies, for want of pelf,
            "Who'd but one NME,—himself."

AN EXTRAORDINARY TURNIP, of the Dwarf species, was lately dug out of a
field on the estate of Major Longbow, who caused the inside to be
scooped out, and gave a grand entertainment therein to a party of 250
persons.—_American Paper._

FALLS OF NIAGARA.—Congress has passed a resolution that a premium should
be offered for a machine by which the Falls of Niagara might be rendered
portable, to afford those persons who live at a distance the opportunity
of viewing them at their own houses.—_American Paper._

[Illustration:

  _MAY_.—"Old May Day"
]

 ┌─────────────┬───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
 │1836.]       │                         MAY.                          │
 ├─────────────┼───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
 │             │The depth of "A Winter in London," I sing:—            │
 │             │    For thus do the rulers of fashion declare—         │
 │             │That _Spring Garden_ shall yield all they know of the  │
 │             │  _spring_,                                            │
 │             │    And the charms of _fair May_ be supplied in _May   │
 │             │  Fair_.                                               │
 ├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │M │ Season's │             "=Old May Day.="             │  WEATHER.  │
 │D │  Signs.  │                                          │            │
 ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│Ah! well- │            BY A NONAGENARIAN.            │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 2│a-day!    │      When I was young and in my prime,   │    who     │
 │  │          │        Then ev'rything look'd gay;       │            │
 │ 3│alack!    │      And nothing was so merry as         │  ☌ ♓ ♑ ♌   │
 │  │          │        The merry FIRST OF MAY:           │            │
 │ 4│alas!     │      Kind Nature, who doth ever smile,   │  in place  │
 │  │          │        Seem'd then to smile the more;    │            │
 │ 5│that      │      And ev'ry Spring that time did bring│     of     │
 │  │          │        Seem'd greener than before.       │            │
 │ 6│such a    │      The birds they sang so jocundly,—   │            │
 │  │          │        They fill'd the air around,       │            │
 │ 7│thing     │      And human hearts as jocundly        │   ☿ ♊ ☽    │
 │  │          │        Responded to the sound.           │            │
 │ 8│should    │      I recollect the lovely scene        │ consulting │
 │  │          │        As though I saw it still:—        │            │
 │ 9│come      │      The mansion of a noble race         │ the stars  │
 │  │          │        Was seated on a hill;             │            │
 │10│to pass!  │      And smilingly it seem'd to look     │            │
 │  │          │        Upon the plain below,             │            │
 │11│but on    │      Where groups of happy villagers     │ ♎ ♐ ☍ ♋ ♉  │
 │  │          │        Were sporting to and fro.         │            │
 │12│my word,  │      The May-pole in the centre plac'd,  │according to│
 │  │          │        All deck'd with garlands gay.     │            │
 │13│I feel    │      While lads and lasses danc'd around,│    art,    │
 │  │          │        And footed it away.               │            │
 │14│suspi-    │      The ruddy hostess of the inn,       │            │
 │  │          │        Which stood within the vale,      │            │
 │15│cious,    │      Supplied the thirsty revellers      │  ♃ ⊕ ♒ ☉   │
 │  │          │        With draughts of nut-brown ale;   │            │
 │16│unless    │      While pleas'd, the neighb'ring      │            │
 │  │          │  gentry stood,                           │            │
 │  │          │        And view'd the cheerful scene,    │thrust forth│
 │17│the stars │      Or laid aside their rank to join    │            │
 │  │          │        The sports upon the green.        │            │
 │18│prove     │                                          │    ♓ ♑     │
 │  │          │      Ah! those were times that memory    │            │
 │19│more      │        Is happy to retrace,              │   their    │
 │  │          │      But chang'd, alas! and sad are those│            │
 │20│propi-    │        Which now supply their place.     │  own bald  │
 │  │          │      An honest healthy peasantry         │            │
 │21│tious,    │        Then shar'd the farmer's board,   │    and     │
 │  │          │      Who'd shrink from parish pauper pay,│            │
 │22│that      │        As from a thing abhorr'd;         │ conceited  │
 │  │          │      The sons of "Merry England" now     │            │
 │23│I shall   │        Are chang'd to Mammon's slaves,   │            │
 │  │          │      And "peep about to find themselves  │            │
 │24│nothing   │        Dishonourable graves."            │   ☽ ♂ ♀    │
 │  │          │      The "labourer," no longer "reckon'd │            │
 │25│have      │        Worthy of his hire,"              │            │
 │  │          │      No more partakes the farmer's board,│suppositions│
 │26│to say    │        Nor warms him at his fire—        │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │27│about     │      *      *      *      *      *       │ ♈ ♀ ⚹ ♏ ☽  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │28│this      │    (RIGDUM FUNNIDOS _interrupteth_:)     │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ For these  │
 │29│famous    │Stop, stop, old friend! I prithee, cease  │            │
 │  │          │  this prosing.                           │            │
 │  │          │Egad! you'll set my gentle readers dozing.│ and other  │
 │30│month     │The TIMES are bad, I own, and sad's the   │            │
 │  │          │  _change_;                               │            │
 │  │          │But, surely, that is not so wondrous      │  weighty   │
 │  │          │  strange;                                │            │
 │31│of May!   │And if it were, this is no place to joke  │            │
 │  │          │  in.                                     │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │  │          │              NONAGENARIAN:               │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │  │          │Enough, good RIGDUM!—I'll give over       │            │
 │  │          │  croaking.                               │            │
 └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘


                            A DRAMATIC FACT.

               "MACBETH by MR. HIGGS!"—
      They sometimes used to let him play it in the country;
                      And then, odds wigs!
                    How very great he felt!
                  One night, while he was at it,
        The pot-boy, from the public-house at which he dealt,
      Being at _the wing_, quoth Higgs, aside, "Od 'rat it!
        I do lack spirits,—but that sha'n't fret me,
        Here, boy, take thou this coin, and go get me"—
      "Some bread and cheese, and porter, innions, Sir, or what?"
                      "Nay, no prog!
            Expend the shilling all in glorious grog!"
          "With sugar, Sir?" "Ay, and very hot;
                  Thou knowest, lout!
          I only take sixpenn'orths cold without!"

        The pot-boy took the grog into the green-room,
      And left it there for Higgs:—but, as it came to pass,
        Lady Macbeth and Banquo having twigged it,
            First _she_ took a very _leetle_ sup,—
                _He_ fairly swigged it;
        And so between them both, alas!
          Lady Macbeth and Banquo mopped it up,
                  And hid the glass!

            Higgs, who all this time
              Had been upon the stage,—
      In that great scene where Macbeth's urged to crime
                By those foul witches,—
        Now strutted in,—but, oh! (excuse the rhyme,)
              Odds philibegs and breeches!
            How he did foam and rage,
                And writhe his face,
        And call the potboy hog, and dog, and log,
        On not perceiving his expected grog
                In its accustomed place.

          The potboy, being summoned, vowed
            That he had duly brought it,
          And, if to speak his mind he was allowed,
                      He thought it
                    Might have vanish'd,
        Being partly spirits,—like the witches,
      "'Tis false!" roared Higgs, "Avaunt! Be banish'd!
      Visit no more this realm of milk and honey!
      Base caitiff! YOU'VE ABSCONDED with the money!"

[Illustration:

  JUNE.—"Holiday at the Public Offices"
]

 ┌─────────────┬───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
 │1836.]       │                         JUNE.                         │
 ├─────────────┼───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
 │             │The Midsummer nights fly swiftly by,                   │
 │             │While Members are "catching the Speaker's eye;"        │
 │             │And the _Outs_ are employing their labour and wit      │
 │             │On those who are _In_, to serve "notice to quit."      │
 ├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │ M│ Season's │              =Odd Matters.=              │  WEATHER.  │
 │ D│  Signs.  │                                          │            │
 ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│Lawyers   │      "HOLIDAYS AT PUBLIC OFFICES."       │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 2│now may   │I've often thought how hard the fate      │    and     │
 │  │          │  Of those, who're destin'd, day by day,  │            │
 │ 3│take      │To rise up early, lie down late,          │ sufficient │
 │  │          │  And waste, in toil, their lives away.   │            │
 │ 4│their     │                                          │  reasons   │
 │  │          │And often have I ask'd myself,            │            │
 │ 5│ease,     │  When musing o'er these scenes of woe,   │ ♈ ☿ ♍ ♀ ♑  │
 │  │          │"Couldst thou, for sake of sordid pelf,   │            │
 │ 6│and       │  Oppress thy fellow-creatures so?"       │   ♅ ☊ ♌    │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 7│counsel   │Then fancy would begin to paint           │            │
 │  │          │  The griefs of little cotton-spinners,   │ instead of │
 │ 8│reckon    │Compell'd to labour till they faint,      │            │
 │  │          │  That bloated knaves may eat good        │            │
 │  │          │  dinners.                                │            │
 │ 9│up their  │                                          │            │
 │  │          │I thought of poor young milliners,        │   ♃ ♂ ⊕    │
 │10│fees;     │  Who toil all night, with matted tresses,│            │
 │  │          │And faces pale, that Fashion's dames      │  jumping   │
 │11│for       │  May grace the ball in fancy dresses.    │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  at once   │
 │12│now       │And then I thought upon the Pole,         │            │
 │  │          │  Condemn'd, among Siberia's snow,        │into the ice│
 │13│the       │With shackled limbs and blighted soul,    │            │
 │  │          │  The joys of freedom ne'er to know.      │  and snow  │
 │14│welcome   │                                          │            │
 │  │          │With those who work in powder mill.       │            │
 │15│long      │  Life's value scarcely weighs a feather, │            │
 │  │          │So oft exploding, 'twere no ill,          │            │
 │16│vacation  │  Were they exploded altogether.          │ ⚹ ♀ ♈ ♐ ♎  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │17│gives a   │But what are these? and what are those?   │    ♊ ♀     │
 │  │          │  Or all that thou, Oh, man! endurest?    │            │
 │18│rest to   │Compar'd with those transcendant woes     │ of January │
 │  │          │  Experienced by the Sinecurist?          │            │
 │19│liti-     │                                          │    and     │
 │  │          │Compell'd by eight o'clock to rise,       │            │
 │20│gation;   │  By nine to get his breakfast o'er,      │ commencing │
 │  │          │And leave some bit that gourmands prize,  │            │
 │21│while     │  Because the stage is at the door.       │   ♄ ☌ ☽    │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │22│happy     │And when the coachman sets him down       │   as the   │
 │  │          │  At Treasury or Navy Pay,                │            │
 │23│they on   │His toil begins,—but I'll explain         │  learned   │
 │  │          │  How hard he works from day to day.      │            │
 │24│quarter   │                                          │            │
 │  │          │Five weary hours he stands or sits,       │            │
 │25│day,      │  Or fidgets till he gets the vapours;    │ ☍ ♈ ♀ ⚹ ♊  │
 │  │          │And then to chase the _ennui_ fits,       │            │
 │26│who're    │  He picks his teeth, or reads the papers.│            │
 │  │          │                                          │  have it,  │
 │27│not       │Perhaps his name full twenty times        │            │
 │  │          │  He writes, or writes a page of figures; │            │
 │28│obliged   │Until are heard the welcome chimes,       │ ☌ ♈ ♒ ♄ ⚹  │
 │  │          │  Which end the toil of these white       │            │
 │  │          │  Niggers.                                │            │
 │29│to run    │                                          │   ♋ ☋ ♅    │
 │  │          │The fate of him who digs the mine,        │            │
 │30│away!     │  Compar'd to this, is children's play;   │_ab initio_,│
 │  │          │Then, ah! how cruel 'tis to sneer,        │            │
 │  │          │  And call his life a holiday.            │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │  │          │Ah! radicals: ye little know              │            │
 │  │          │  'Bout what it is ye make a clamour;     │            │
 │  │          │Go, thank your stars you drag a truck,    │            │
 │  │          │  Or only wield a blacksmith's hammer.    │            │
 └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘


                        THE SERVANT OF ALL WORK.

                         "He HOOD if he could."

Roaming along, the other day, in those regions of Cockney retirement,
the vicinity of the Cat and Mutton Fields, about a mile from the _Ultima
Thule_ of Shoreditch, I was struck by the appearance of a row of neat
little houses; and my attention was so particularly arrested by one of
them, that I incontinently paused to look at it. It seemed to have all
the ostentatious assumption of a little man who strives to look big. It
had a portico, that might have belonged to the Colosseum, with a flight
of stone steps that would have graced the new palace at Pimlico; and the
drawing-room windows were ambitiously overshadowed by a verandah, not
unworthy of Worthing.

While I was meditating on its appearance, and admiring the extraordinary
air of cleanliness which distinguished it from its neighbours, a paper
parcel, tied round with thread, and sealed with a thimble, fell at my
feet. I looked above and around me, but no one was visible; and
conceiving it to be intended for myself, I picked it up, and walked on.
At a favourable opportunity I opened it, and read as follows:—

                  *       *       *       *       *

"This cums Hopping that sum boddy in the Street Walking may pick me up
and put me into the Square box at the Circling librey, the Place where
the Post is. It is the haughty bioggrify of a unfortnit yung cretur
who's in servis. Let the supperscripshun be to the Mournin Herald or the
Currier or the Trew Son or the Stand Hard, or the Spekt Tatur, or any of
'em, for one's just as good as tother. I think the noospapers would take
it inn, for they takes in a good many servants as wants places.

"My pappa was a Baker, and he meant I shuld be Bread up like a lady, for
tho I was the least of the Batch, i was the Flour of the flock. But
pappa Dying, i had to git my Living, for he didn't Roll in ritches, and
his guds and chappels were Saddled with detts, witch Spurred me on to
Bridel my greef, tho i seldom had a Bit in my mouth, wich was hard; and
when our Blow got Wind, i lost my sweethart, wich Blow was Harder. He
was sitch a nice yung man; and when i walkt past his Door, he used to
prays my Gate, and tell me when we were marryd we should live in Stile.
But I am Loth to say, he turned out a Willing, and wanted te tak
advantidge of my citywashun. But I had 2 strings to my Beau in a yung
mit-chipman, but he got prest and sent on board a Tender, witch was a
grate Hard Shipp for him, and I felt it.

"But to cut a Long Tail Short,—when my dear Ben Bannister left me, miss
fortin Staired me in the face, and every boddy turn'd their Backs on me,
and I culd not bare such a Front, so i got a place as a servnt of all
work, and my mind was maid up to be in duster house: but it was a Grate
fall for me down into the Kitchen, tho when i got there i found a
Grater; for my first missus was a Dresser, and often and often when I've
bin all over greece she has calld me up to her Rome to help her on with
her gownd, witch was very humblin to 1 as was used to have her own made
to wait upon her. Butt i left her bekause we lived at a Fishmongers &
itt Smelt so; and i had more than twenty Plaices in the first 12 months,
wich Maid me quite Crabby, for I was going Backwards. But mississes are
as proud as my lord Mare, and makes you work like an Horse; so I turned
myself Out, for i culd not In-Door itt.

"I wont trubbel you with all my trubbels, but will skipp over the hole
to give you my Last, wich dont Fit me at all; and its Jest no Joke, I
can ashure you, for its like as if my 20 mississes was turnd into one.
I've bin in the plaice almost a month, soe I have had a pritty gud
experense.

"First, i Seconds all the close, & theres 13 of us in fammaly. Theres
missis & master, thats 2, but misses says as how theyre 1: theres the 3
young ladys is 5; and the 3 boys from skool, where i am sure they never
larnt no manners, & I dont love em at all, that's Hate; & the 2 yung
babbys in harms is 10; and mr. Phipps the frunt parler loger is 11, and
mr Snooks the back parler loger is 12 & i am just thirteen. So i leaves
you to juge when i Hang em all out if there isnt enuff to Do for.

"Missis is what they calls a not Abel womman, & keeps 1 scrubbin & doin
all day long, & is so pertickler, that when master cums home on a wet
day, i has to lift him into the hous for fear he shuld dirty the steps.
To be shure he's a werry littel man, but then its so shockin indillikat.
Missis is verry fond of Bruin too, witch i cant Bear, and i hates Hops,
xcept when i goes to a dance; besides, the Hopperation quite puts one
into a fomentation, and sets one all of a Work. Then the fammaly is so
verry unreglar, & we keeps a deal of cumpany, tho they dont alow any
follerers, and missis is always snubbin me if the Butcher or the Baker
stopps a minuet att the gait. But if i were even to liv in a garratt, i
shuld be abuv sitch peepel & shuld look down uppon em. I no one of the
yung ladys casts a sheeps eye on the Butcher herself, but i hop he wont
giv her his Hart, for i am shure she would be a gay Liver, & i no she
has plenty of Tung.

"Wile i am uppon theas yung ladys i culd pick a hole in em, but i abhor
Back bitin. Howsomdever, tho they are Twins all Three of em, theres no
Unity in One of em, and when a gentilman is interdeuced to the fammaly,
they all fall in luv with him, wich must be verry embrasing to the
party, and they try all their harts of captywashun. Miss Carryline rites
a billy dux anomilously and folds it like a trew lovyers not, to puzzel
him. Miss Matilda makes annoys on the harp with her bigg Fistis, and
says she had her lessons from a Boxer; and miss Jimmima thumps away on
the piney Forty, Fifty times a day, to git pirfict for the heavening. I
often wishes thare was locks to them keys.

"But all their Harts wont do, & theyve none of them got a Deer yet, for
they make themselves 2 Chepe, & they are all of em verry jellus of me,
bekause the 2 gentilmen logers has a grate licking for me; & they carrys
their spit so Fur that I mustnt ware a Bore, and they sets their mama
Hat me if they sees a bit of lace on my Cap. They makes quite a Furze
too if i incloses my Waste with a ribbon tho its so Common; & I'm shure
they had better pay what they Hose than find fault with my Stockins; for
they stands over me while i am Pinking em, witch shose they aint well
Red in their manors, and they wont lett me Ware em no Ware. I shuld lik
to no why servnts aint to doo what they likes with their hone; for Ive
red theyve as big a steak in the common unity as their Betters, who're
many of em nothin else but Gamblers.

"But i dont mind the Hitts of sich Misses: for its all Shear envy,
becaus they wants to Cut me out with the 2 logers, & had rayther see me
Hangd than Halter my condishun. But the gentilmen dont lik none of em,
for theyre as tall and as pail as 2 hapenny Rushlites and a grate deal
more Wicked. Mr. Snooks, the loger as walks the Horsepittels in the back
parler, says theyre more like ottomies than wimmen, for they've none of
em got no hannimashun; and mr. Phipps the clark as hokkipies the frunt
parler says theyre quite Ciphers to me, for i am a better Figger, & more
uprighter than any 1 of em. He sometimes carrys his devours to such a
Pitch, that if i culd forgit my Tar, I see no resin why i shuld not
marry him, & then the miss Rushlites would be very much Put Out when
they'd lost one of their Flames.

"Mr. Phipps is a littery man, and nose a Grate many Tongs, and has maid
a bigg book of Pottery, full of Plates. He tells me not to be jellus
because he Courts the Mews, & has sent me the histry of his life & a
coppy of verses on my mississes yousidge of me; and i hop you'll tell
the noospaper man he mustnt take my life without takin his'n & he may
have the pottery into the bargain.

"Notty Benny.—My life shall be conclooded att the first hopportunitty.

                      "So no more at presnt from yours humbely to comand
                                    "MOLDYDUSTA MOGGS."

                  *       *       *       *       *

"Post Scripp. I forgot to tell you that i cant git enuff to heat, missis
is sitch a skin Flint, unless I Steel it, & that's unpossebel, for she
always takes care to lock upp the Cold Heatabels."

[Illustration:

  JULY.—"Dog Days"
]

 ┌─────────────┬───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
 │1836.]       │                         JULY.                         │
 ├─────────────┼───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
 │             │Dear me! how hot the weather grows—                    │
 │             │    There's scarce a breath to cool one's face;        │
 │             │Through _Air_ Street not a zephyr blows,               │
 │             │    Nor e'en a breeze from _Wind_-ham Place.           │
 │             │Down Regent Street, so lazy all one sees,              │
 │             │There's nobody "industrious" but "The Fleas."          │
 ├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │ M│ Season's │              =Odd Matters.=              │  WEATHER.  │
 │ D│  Signs.  │                                          │            │
 ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│belly     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 2│back      │       A DOGGEREL FOR THE DOG DAYS.       │   (that    │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 3│hips      │Most _doggedly_ I do maintain,            │ is to say, │
 │  │          │  And hold the _dogma_ true,—             │            │
 │ 4│reins,    │That four-legg'd _dogs_ altho' we see,    │ beginning  │
 │  │          │  We've some that walk on two.            │            │
 │ 5│all       │                                          │   at the   │
 │  │          │Among them there are clever dogs;         │            │
 │ 6│full of   │  A few you'd reckon mad;                 │ beginning) │
 │  │          │While some are very jolly dogs,           │            │
 │ 7│aches     │  And others very sad.                    │  ♍ ☉ ⚹ ♍   │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 8│and       │You've heard of Dogs, who, early taught,  │   ♓ ☽ ♑    │
 │  │          │  Catch halfpence in the mouth;—          │            │
 │ 9│pains     │But we've a long-tail'd _Irish_ dog,      │            │
 │  │          │  With feats of larger growth.            │    I do    │
 │10│because   │                                          │            │
 │  │          │Of Dogs who merely _halfpence_ snatch     │            │
 │11│I know    │  The admiration ceases,                  │   prefer   │
 │  │          │For he grows saucy, sleek, and fat,       │            │
 │12│not       │  By swallowing _penny-pieces_!           │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │13│what      │He's practising some other feats,         │  ☉ ☽ ♑ ♀   │
 │  │          │  Which time will soon reveal;            │            │
 │14│to do     │One is, to squeeze an _Orange_ flat,      │            │
 │  │          │  And strip it of its _Peel_.             │  jogging   │
 │15│the       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │The next he'll find a toughish job,       │            │
 │16│Season's  │  For one so far in years;                │   along    │
 │  │          │He wants to pull an old _House_ down,     │            │
 │17│Signs     │  That's now propp'd up by _Peers_.       │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │18│are       │I've heard of physic thrown to dogs,      │  ☉ ♊ ♓ ♓   │
 │  │          │  And very much incline                   │            │
 │19│now       │To think it true, for we've a pack        │ slowly and │
 │  │          │  Who only _bark_ and _w_(h)_ine_.        │            │
 │20│so few    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │The _Turnspit_ of the sad old days        │cautelously;│
 │21│and       │  Is vain enough to boast,                │            │
 │  │          │Altho' his "occupation's gone,"           │            │
 │22│all       │  He still could _rule the roast_.        │   ☽ △ ♓    │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │23│that      │But turnspits now are out of date,—       │            │
 │  │          │  We all despise the hack,                │  feeling   │
 │24│I have    │And in the kitchen of the state           │            │
 │  │          │  We still prefer a _Jack_.               │  my way,   │
 │25│got       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │26│to say    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │as it were, │
 │27│is, take  │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │    with    │
 │28│care of   │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │29│Saint     │                                          │ ♄ ♃ ♂ ☉ ⚹  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │30│Swithin's │                                          │ my eye at  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │31│day!      │                                          │            │
 └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘


             _STANZAS, addressed to Mrs...., of ... Terrace
                        Cat and Mutton Fields._

           You 'cat,' that would 'worry a rat!'
             You 'cow with the crumpled horn!'
           I wish you were _squeez'd_,—and that's _flat_,—
             For ill-using a 'Maiden forlorn.'

           You're as bad as a _slave-driver_ quite,
             Altho' you subscrib'd to the tracts;—
           If the linen's wash'd ever so _white_,
             You always complain of the _blacks_.

           A servant is worthy her _hire_;
             You pilfer one-fourth of her due,
           For tho' she does all you desire,
             She only gets _ire_ from you.

           A fit she had, one afternoon,
             When you set her a-cleaning the paint;
           And while she was off in a _swoon_,
             You said it was only a _feint_.

           A party you had yesterday,—
             No wonder so often she swoons,—
           For as soon as the folks went away,
             You began to be missing the _spoons_!

           She was cleaning the windows last week
             (Such savings are very small gains),
           You scolded her while you could speak,
             And told her she didn't take _panes_.

           She cleans all the boots and the shoes;
             When she's done 'em she sits down to cry:
           WARREN'S JET is the blacking you choose;
             But od _'rabbit_ that _Warren_! say I.

           For this you can make no excuse:—
             You'd a party at whist t'other day,
           And you scolded away like the _deuce_,
             'Cause the sandwiches dropp'd from the _tray_.

           You tell her she dresses too gay
             (You're afraid that she'll cut out your gals),
           You strip lace and ribbons away,
             And say she shan't wear such fal-lals.

           'Tis in vain her attempting to speak,
             For your heart is as hard as a stone;
           But she means to be married next week;
             Then she'll 'do what she likes with her own.'

[Illustration:

  AUGUST.——Bathing at Brighton.
]

 ┌─────────────┬───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
 │   1836.]    │                        AUGUST.                        │
 ├─────────────┴───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
 │Perhaps the Minister has passed the budget, and given the Houses     │
 │leave to trudge it;—the lawyer folds his brief, with little grief;—  │
 │closed are the Halls, against all calls;—John Doe and Richard Roe may│
 │go;—the debtor breathes, respited from mishap; and Bailiffs, wanting │
 │jobs, may keep _a Tap_.                                              │
 ├──┬──────────┬──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │ M│ Season's │              =Odd Matters.=              │  WEATHER.  │
 │ D│  Signs.  │                                          │            │
 ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│In        │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 2│Germany   │                BRIGHTON.                 │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 3│they      │Well here, once more, on Brighton's shore,│ the end of │
 │  │          │  We're safe arrived at last;             │            │
 │ 4│rest      │So, Mister Snip, don't have the hyp,      │  ☽ ♓ ☌ ☍   │
 │  │          │  Nor look so _overcast_.                 │            │
 │ 5│their     │                                          │     my     │
 │  │          │We've not been here this many a year;     │            │
 │ 6│heads     │  So do not look so blue,                 │            │
 │  │          │But sport your cash, and cut a dash,      │  divining  │
 │ 7│betwixt   │  As other people do.                     │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 8│a pair    │There's Mistress Skait,-she wouldn't wait,│    rod,    │
 │  │          │  But off she tripp'd so gaily:           │            │
 │ 9│of        │She struts along amid the throng:         │ ⚹ ♈ ♃ ♐ ♊  │
 │  │          │  _Her_ husband isn't _scaly_.            │            │
 │10│feather   │                                          │   ☉ ♐ ♓    │
 │  │          │There's Mistress _Wick_, and little Dick, │            │
 │11│beds;     │  Have come to have a _dipping_;          │    and     │
 │  │          │And there's her niece, who's been to      │            │
 │  │          │  _Greece_,                               │            │
 │12│a famous  │  Is now all over _dripping_.             │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ exploring  │
 │13│plan, I   │And oh, what fun! there's Martha Gunn     │            │
 │  │          │  (But no, that gun's _gone off_),        │            │
 │14│will be   │But only look at that sea-cook            │ the mazes  │
 │  │          │  A-sousing Mrs. Gough.                   │            │
 │15│bound,    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │Well,  I declare, there's Mrs. _Ware_     │     of     │
 │16│while     │(She's every _where_, I think)—           │            │
 │  │          │Her spouse, I know, is quite her beau,    │            │
 │17│frost &   │  And never spares the chink.             │ ☉ ♃ ♐ ♂ ☍  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │18│snow      │And, last of all, there's Mr. Ball,       │            │
 │  │          │  Who promis'd Mrs. B—                    │ futurity,  │
 │19│are on    │And kindly has _redeem'd_ his _pledge_,—  │            │
 │  │          │  That she should see the sea.            │            │
 │20│the       │                                          │  with the  │
 │  │          │So, Mister Snip, don't have the hyp,      │            │
 │21│ground,   │  Nor look so monstrous blue;             │            │
 │  │          │But sport your cash, and cut a dash,      │heedfulness │
 │22│but       │  As other people do.                     │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │23│in the    │                                          │  ♎ ♅ ☉ ♐   │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │24│Dog       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │of one, who,│
 │25│Days'     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  knowing   │
 │26│raging    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │    the     │
 │27│heat, I   │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │28│shouldn't │                                          │  ♃ ♉ ♒ ☽   │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │29│think it  │                                          │weightiness │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │30│such a    │                                          │   of the   │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │31│treat.    │                                          │            │
 └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘


                    =Advertisements Extraordinary.=

THEATRE ROYAL, ENGLISH UPROAR.—The Proprietor respectfully announces
that, while the cold weather lasts, he will present each visitor to the
Boxes or Pit with a bucket of "thick-ribbed ICE;" and assures the Public
that the temperature of the Theatre is so comfortably regulated that it
is never more than 50 degrees below the freezing point.

                  *       *       *       *       *

                    THEATRE ROYAL, DREARY LANE.—This
            Evening, their Majesties' Servants will perform
                        THE MANAGER IN DISTRESS;
           To which will be added the serious Extravaganza of
                         THE HOT CROSS _BUNN_;
                The principal Character by the Manager.
                       The whole to conclude with
                           THE DEVIL TO PAY.

On Monday next, Mr. SWING will exhibit his extraordinary performances on
the Tight Rope.—_N.B._ On this occasion all persons on the Free List
will be _suspended_.


                              WANT PLACES.

AS TOADY, an unmarried Female of an uncertain age. She is so soft in her
disposition as to take any impression; says yes or no, just as she is
bid; prefers Cape to Madeira, and dislikes Champagne; and has no
objection to wash and walk out with the poodles.—_N.B._ Is very skilful
in backbiting, and would be delighted to assist in the ruin of
reputations. Can have a good character from her last place, which she
left in consequence of the lady marrying her tall Irish footman.

AS DINER-OUT, an Irish Captain on half-pay, who has at his disposal a
plentiful supply of small talk and table wit; does the agreeable to
perfection; is a good laugher at stale jokes, and a capital retailer of
new ones; never falls asleep at the repetition of a dull story, and
always laughs in the right place. He has a variety of other
qualifications too numerous for insertion in an advertisement.

                  *       *       *       *       *

NOTICE is hereby given, that a considerable portion of CIVIC DIGNITY,
conjectured to be equal in quantity to a _Winchester_ Measure, has been
lost since the 9th of November, 1834. This _in_-valuable appendage is
supposed to have been dropped from the person of an _ill_ustrious
_Mayor_, during certain squabbles which took place in spite of common
sense and _common counsel_. It is hoped it will be recovered by his
successor, and any information respecting the same may be communicated
to a HOBBLER, at the Mare's Nest in the Poultry.

                  *       *       *       *       *

LOST—by NOBODY, in the neighbourhood of NOWHERE, an article more easily
conceived than described, known by the name of NOTHING. The fortunate
finder may keep it on paying the expenses of this Advertisement.

[Illustration:

  SEPTEMBER.—"Michaelmas Day"
]

 ┌─────────────┬───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
 │1836.]       │                      SEPTEMBER.                       │
 ├─────────────┼───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
 │             │It pleased her jolly Majesty Queen Bess,               │
 │             │_Stuffing_, herself, a well-_stuff'd_ goose to bless,  │
 │             │And ever since, in _sage_ affairs of state,            │
 │             │The royal bird does still predominate;—                │
 │             │So modest merit proves of little use,                  │
 │             │Unless at Court you "boo" to ev'ry goose.              │
 ├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │ M│ Season's │              =Odd Matters.=              │  WEATHER.  │
 │ D│  Signs.  │                                          │            │
 ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│Now       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 2│farmers   │           "SHOOTING THE MOON."           │  matters   │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 3│mind      │Now, Mrs. Dove, my dearest love,          │ ⚹ ☉ ☋ ♂ ♄  │
 │  │          │  No longer let us jar;                   │            │
 │ 4│your      │Full well you know that cash is low,      │   ⚹ ♀ ⊕    │
 │  │          │  And credit's under par.                 │            │
 │ 5│geese     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │Short commons are our common fare.        │ whereinto  │
 │ 6│and       │  No _turtle_-doves are we:               │            │
 │  │          │Tho' once there came such lots of _game_, │   he is    │
 │ 7│pigs,     │  Now folks _make game_ of me.            │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ inquiring, │
 │ 8│for       │Ah! what to do I wish I knew,             │            │
 │  │          │  Or where to run a score!                │            │
 │ 9│Cockney   │For all the town I've done so brown,      │   ♏ ♄ ☌    │
 │  │          │  I can't _do_ any more.                  │            │
 │10│sports-   │                                          │            │
 │  │          │We've had our fill on _Mutton Hill_;      │ is fearful │
 │  │          │                                          │     of     │
 │11│men       │  In _Cornhill_ gain'd our _bread_;       │            │
 │  │          │Dress'd with an air in fam'd _Cloth Fair_;│ stumbling. │
 │12│run their │  In _Grub Street_ well were _fed_.       │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │13│rigs,     │We got our _shoes_ in _Leather Lane_;     │ ♀ ☍ ♑ ♌ ☋  │
 │  │          │  Our _hats_ in _Hatton Garden_;          │            │
 │14│and       │We'd quite a catch in _Ha'penny Hatch_,   │ For look,  │
 │  │          │  And never paid a _farden_.              │            │
 │15│when      │                                          │ what dire  │
 │  │          │We've chalked a score on every door       │            │
 │16│the       │  Of publican or sinner;                  │  mishaps   │
 │  │          │And now can't meet a _Newman_ Street,     │            │
 │17│cits      │  To trust us with a dinner.              │  do arise  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │18│are       │And, lack-a day! here's Quarter Day;      │            │
 │  │          │  It always comes too soon;               │            │
 │19│taking    │So we by night must take our flight,      │    ☉ ♀     │
 │  │          │  For we must _shoot the moon_!           │            │
 │20│aim,      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ from false │
 │21│your      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │22│poultry   │                                          │prophecying!│
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │23│may       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │24│mistake   │                                          │  ♂ ♄ ☉ ♈   │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │25│for       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ The farmer │
 │26│game,     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │27│and       │                                          │    ♉ ♂     │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │28│kill      │                                          │reapeth his │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │29│or        │                                          │ corn, and  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │30│lame.     │                                          │ ♉ ♄ ☉ ♊ ☌  │
 └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘


                               AN EPISTLE

             From SIR JOHN NORTH to RIGDUM FUNNIDOS, Gent.

            DEAR RIG.—Have you read my famous book,
            About the wonderful route I took;
            Through frost and snow, how I went so far,
            To stare in vain at the polar star,
            And how I sought by night and noon
            To bag the beams of the arctic moon;
            And how it was far beyond a joke
            To think my steam should end in smoke;
            With all the spiteful things I said,
            As I knock'd the engine on the head;
            And how I've fill'd up countless pages
            With sneers at the "Useful Knowledge" sages;
            And about the land of the Esquimaux,
            Where I gave a squeeze to many a squaw;
            But sighed to think that a time must come
            To clear them off by "the force of Rum;"
            And how I came to an island blest,
            Which foot of man had never press'd,
            And grateful to the Spinning _Gin_-ny,
            That lined my purse with many a guinea,
            I straightway handed down to fame
            A Smithfield _Booth's_ immortal name?

                I did such deeds as would make you stare;
            'Twere a bore to tell how I kill'd a bear;
            Or how, for want of a better meal,
            I seal'd the fate of many a seal.

                And have you read that, to crown the whole,
            I'm almost sure I found the Pole;
            ('Twas twirling round, on its centre set,
            Like an opera dancer's pirouette,)
            And though the fog as thick did look
            As a certain stupid quarto book,
            One night I saw a vision fair,
            Of knighthood's honours in the air;
            And how, agog to reach my glory,
            I hasten'd home to print my story;
            And how I thought 'twould have been no blame
            To have left behind the halt and lame,
            Dead weights that, everybody knows,
            Are only fit to feed the crows?
            For if, Dear Rig., you'll only look,
            All this, and more, is in my book.

                  *       *       *       *       *

THE COMET, which has so long been looked for, suddenly made its
appearance here on the 5th inst. between the hours of four and five in
the morning, and the servant maids were pretty particularly astonished
when they arose, to find that its tail had lighted all their fires, and
boiled all their kettles for breakfast. For this piece of service they
have christened it the "tail of love."—_American Paper._

[Illustration:

  OCTOBER.—'S^t. Crispin's Day'
]

 ┌─────────────┬───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
 │1836.]       │                       OCTOBER.                        │
 ├─────────────┼───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
 │             │The sum of Summer is cast at last,                     │
 │             │And carried to Wintry season,                          │
 │             │And the frighten'd _leaves_ are _leaving_ us fast;     │
 │             │If they stayed it would be _high trees-on_.            │
 │             │The sheep, exposed to the rain and drift,              │
 │             │Are left to all sorts of _wethers_,                    │
 │             │And the ragged young birds must _make a shift_,        │
 │             │Until they can get new feathers.                       │
 ├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │ M│ Season's │              =Odd Matters.=              │  WEATHER.  │
 │ D│  Signs.  │                                          │            │
 ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│Now       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 2│heroes    │           "ST CRISPIN'S DAY."            │   moweth   │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 3│bold      │               AN ECLOGUE.                │ his grass, │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 4│in        │              CORDWAINERIUS.              │ ♀ ♃ ⊕ ♎ ♐  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 5│leather   │ARISE, COBBLERIUS, cast thy awl away,     │            │
 │  │          │The sun is up, and 'tis SAINT CRISPIN'S   │  when he   │
 │  │          │  DAY.                                    │            │
 │ 6│breeches  │Leave vulgar snobs to mend plebeian soles,│            │
 │  │          │For you and I will jollify, by goles!     │should leave│
 │ 7│do        │                                          │            │
 │  │          │               COBBLERIUS.                │    them    │
 │ 8│leap      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │A seedy poet, lodging next the sky,       │            │
 │ 9│o'er      │Came yesternight, entreating me to try    │  ♉ ☍ ♈ ♀   │
 │  │          │And mend his _understanding_ by the noon; │            │
 │10│five      │When that is done, I'm yours for a blue   │            │
 │  │          │  moon.                                   │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ standing;  │
 │11│barred    │              CORDWAINERIUS.              │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │12│gates     │Then while you cobble, let us chaunt a    │ ♒ ☿ ♊ ♍ ☽  │
 │  │          │  stave:                                  │            │
 │  │          │We're "Temp'rance" folks, so let the theme│            │
 │  │          │  be grave.                               │            │
 │13│and       │Let's sing yon palace to the God of Gin:  │            │
 │  │          │Who pipes the best, a pot of malt shall   │the sick man│
 │  │          │  win.                                    │            │
 │14│ditches   │                                          │            │
 │  │          │               COBBLERIUS.                │throweth off│
 │15│the       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │I take your challenge—to your plan agree; │    his     │
 │16│perils    │Yon Costermonger shall our umpire be.     │            │
 │  │          │                                          │    warm    │
 │17│of        │             COSTERMONGERIUS.             │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ clothing,  │
 │18│the       │I'm bottle-holder for a glass of max;     │            │
 │  │          │So clear your pipes, my jolly cocks o'    │            │
 │  │          │  vax.                                    │            │
 │19│field     │                                          │ ☌ ♒ ☿ ♊ ♎  │
 │  │          │              CORDWAINERIUS.              │            │
 │20│to        │                                          │   ⚹ ♏ ♀    │
 │  │          │"Here, _sprightly_ folks, by _spirits_    │            │
 │  │          │  turn'd to _sprites_,                    │            │
 │21│dare      │Whose _rosy_ cheeks are chang'd to _lily  │    ☿ ♄     │
 │  │          │  whites_,                                │            │
 │  │          │Caught in the _snares_ of _Gin_, rue not  │            │
 │  │          │  their ruin,                             │            │
 │22│and       │But do their best, to do their own        │            │
 │  │          │  undoing!"                               │            │
 │  │          │                                          │  when he   │
 │23│hunt      │               COBBLERIUS.                │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │24│that      │"_Rum_ customers, who're far more sad than│should wrap │
 │  │          │  funny,                                  │            │
 │  │          │Here get no trust when they have spent    │            │
 │  │          │  their money:                            │            │
 │25│furious   │No pay no potion;—by this rule they stick;│            │
 │  │          │The lighted _dial_, only, goes _on tick_."│ himself up │
 │26│beast     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │              CORDWAINERIUS.              │            │
 │27│the       │                                          │  ☊ ♓ ☋ ♌   │
 │  │          │"Here, Mothers, by some devilish fiend    │            │
 │  │          │  possest,                                │            │
 │28│hare!     │Drive their poor infants from the port of │  closer;   │
 │  │          │  _Breast_;                               │            │
 │  │          │And 'stead of mother's _milk_, whene'er   │            │
 │  │          │  they scream,                            │            │
 │29│Oh,       │Stop their shrill crying with a glass of  │   ♀ ♏ ⚹    │
 │  │          │  _cream_."                               │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │30│courage   │               COBBLERIUS.                │    the     │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │31│rare!     │"Here _compounds_ dire, which ne'er can   │  ♂ ☽ ☌ ♄   │
 │  │          │  _cordials_ be,                          │            │
 │  │          │Turn _seedy fellows_ into _felos de se_."—│            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │  │          │             COSTERMONGERIUS.             │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │  │          │Just stow your magging, for you've piped  │            │
 │  │          │  enough,                                 │            │
 │  │          │And, blow me, if I ever heard sich stuff! │            │
 │  │          │Vy, vhat's the hods, I'll be so bold to   │            │
 │  │          │  ax,                                     │            │
 │  │          │'Twixt swilling heavy vet, and swigging   │            │
 │  │          │  max?                                    │            │
 │  │          │So stow your staves, and as it's chilly   │            │
 │  │          │  veather,                                │            │
 │  │          │Ve'll mix the max and heavy vet together: │            │
 │  │          │And then, my lads o' leather, you shall   │            │
 │  │          │  see                                     │            │
 │  │          │How cosily the mixture vill agree.        │            │
 └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘


                            ANNUAL REGISTER
                                   OF
                        REMARKABLE OCCURRENCES.

JAN. 13th.—_Three_ young men on the Serpentine cutting a figure of
_six_, about _nine_ in the morning of _twelfth_ day, were _two_
careless, though warned be-_four_, to _weight_ the reading of the
Society's "not-ice," so popped into _sixteen_ feet water. They were
speedily helped out of the ice-_well_, and resolved to _cut_ away and
not _come again_.

21st.—An Omnibus Cad was brought before the Lord Mayor, charged with
having been guilty of civility to a passenger, by neglecting to bang the
door against his _stern_, in time to throw him on his _head_. His
Lordship said such conduct was unprecedented; but as the man, in
extenuation, proved that he had cried "go _on_," while another gentleman
was getting _off_, he thought the case did not call for interference.
The culprit, however, was dismissed by the Paddington committee, lest
his example should contaminate the others.

FEB. 4th.—The following horrible event occurred in a family lately
arrived from India. A female of colour, one of the establishment, was
sitting by the fire, with two of her dark little progeny by her side,
when a black footman, remarkable for his savage disposition, suddenly
entered the room, seized one of them in each hand, hurried to the water
cistern, and plunging in the struggling little ones, held them till life
was extinct. In vain the distracted mother implored compassion; the
bystanders seemed to think there was no law against drowning kittens.

MARCH 12th.—An elderly gentleman, crossing Fleet Street, was driven
_through_ by the _Perseverance_ Omnibus. He was carried into the nearest
shop, and, after taking six boxes of Morison's pills, felt so little
inconvenience that he expressed his determination to keep the orifice
open, so as not to be an obstruction to carriages in future.

8th.—On Thursday, died Old Tom, the Leadenhall Market Gander, after
having worthily supported the city dignity for thirty years. The Court
of Aldermen attended his funeral, and his deeds were not forgotten by
the City Remembrancer. His spirit still haunts the old spot, and nightly
takes in his favourite stuffing of sage and onions, and the poulterers
say they always know _the ghost_ when they see him _a-gobblin_.

26th.—Mr. Morison was elected principal of Brazen-nose College on
presenting to its library a copy of his treatise on _Assurance_, with
tables of the average termination of life, as deduced from the last
returns of the _pills_ of mortality.

APRIL 1st.—According to annual custom, a considerable number of persons
assembled this morning on Tower Hill to see the Lions washed. It was,
however, officially notified that, the menagerie having been broken up,
they could not be gratified, but that his Majesty, in order to prevent
their entire disappointment, would, for this occasion, substitute the
shaving of a Donkey; with a recommendation that each individual do
perform the ceremony at his own home in future.

14th.—The Hackney Coaches of the Metropolis met at their usual resting
time, which lasts from sixty minutes past twelve on Saturday night till
sixty minutes before one on Sunday morning, and resolved to petition
Parliament in favour of Sir Andrew's Sunday Bill. They complained that
though on that day they always had more _fare_, they had no more food,
for though they were never without the taste of _a bit_, they had no
leisure to bite; and that though the weather might be ever so fine, for
them it was always _rein_-y. They, however, did not wish to make
exorbitant demands, and would be quite satisfied if Sunday, to others a
day of joy, might be to them a day of "_Wo_." Earl _Grey_ was asked to
present the petition, and signified "yea" by saying "neigh."

MAY 5th.—The attention of the passengers in Salisbury Square was excited
by observing an inhabitant come out at the attic window of a house (No.
66), and pass along the parapet. His next neighbour, with whom he was
known to be on bad terms, soon after appeared on the adjacent roof. They
approached each other with signs of anger, and grappling, engaged in a
furious struggle;—both fell from the parapet;—fortunately escaping the
iron spikes below, and alighting on their feet, each spit at the other,
cried "moll-row," and rushed down his own area.

15th.—As Doctor Fillpot was walking in the Zoological Gardens, his
Christian charity was blown into the cage of the Humming birds, and
instantly pecked up by the voracious little animals, who, strange to
say, did not seem at all inconvenienced by the extraordinary meal.

JUNE 3rd.—A nursemaid and three fine children were lost in some cart
ruts, called "The New Promenade," in Regent's Park, and have never been
heard of since.

9th.—At the Annual Meeting of the Proprietors of the Thames Tunnel, the
secretary reported that though the _Leeks_ had all ceased, he was happy
to say there was no diminution of _Salaries_; that they had got _over_
all the soft _mud_, which was hard; but they had now to get _under_ a
hard _rock_, which was harder; that their money in the _stocks_ was
expended in digging _stones_; and that they had not reached the opposite
_Bank_, though they had exhausted their _Banker_; and that, in all
probability, though they might labour to the end, they would never see
the end of their labour; for however _light_ they might make of it, they
were more in the _dark_ than ever. The meeting, in great discontent,
divided without a dividend; and, grunting like _hogs_, pronounced the
w_hole_ a great _bore_.

JULY 5th.—The old and young elephants, from the Zoological Gardens, were
brought up at Marylebone office. It appears that during the night they
had made their way to the Paddington Canal _Bank_, had broken open the
_Locks_, and abstracted all the water, with which they got beastly
"drunk on the premises." Their return home in that state caused
suspicion to fall on them, and their apartments being searched, the
stolen property was found concealed in their _trunks_, together with
pawnbrokers' duplicates for the contents of the Grand Junction
reservoir, and the City basin, both of which had suddenly disappeared in
a very mysterious manner, and having been at low water of late, and much
run upon, owing to the dry weather, were supposed to have run away. The
culprits showed their teeth at the charge, as hard as ivory, and
speechified at length, but a clear case being established, they offered
their _pledges_ for better behaviour; however, the worthy magistrate
stopped their _spouting_, and sent them to the treadmill. The office was
crowded by members of the Temperance Society, several of whom offered to
become bail for them.

21st.—At the last Drawing Room, Captain Bodkin had the honour of
presenting Cleopatra's needle to the Queen. Her Majesty was pleased to
send to _Cable Street_ for a hundred yards of _Wopping_ Thread, and in
the evening one of the maids of honour used it, by Her Majesty's desire,
to work a button-hole of a new shirt for Mister O'Killus in the park.

AUGUST 4th.—On Sunday, the 2nd, Lord H. visited the Bear-pit in the
Zoological Gardens, and leaning too far over the wall, fell among the
interesting animals, who were so alarmed at the sight that they were
seized with convulsions, and have been in a nervous state ever since.

17th.—An old woman was charged with selling apples on a Sunday morning.
She was too poor to keep a _shop_, so was committed to the _Counter_. It
appeared that her basket obstructed the people in their way to the
Gravesend Sunday boats.

26th.—A steam-boat party going down the river for a Marine _Gala_, were
caught in a _gale_. The Catastrophe happened off the Isle of _Dogs_, and
the hurricane _setting_ in during a Quadrille, they tried in vain to
stand _firm_, for _partners_ were driven "right and left;" the "Ladies'
chain" was broken off in the middle, and "The Lancers" totally put to
the rout. The chimney _fell_ in the midst of a _cadence_, and the mast
was _shivered_ during a _shake_, but the musicians were all ruined, for
their instruments were blown _beyond Fidlers' reach_.

SEPT. 1st.—The Duke of Nemours, with his suite, rode through Coventry
Street, when the figure of Fieschi became visibly agitated, and
attempted to discharge the Infernal Machine at him. Nothing but its
being a sham, and not loaded, saved the Duke from the fate intended for
his father.

5th.—The Ladies' Brazen Monument to the Duke of Wellington, having been
_smoked_ a good deal of late, its noble proprietresses determined on
giving it an autumnal washing before the fall of the leaf. For this
purpose, the (Holy) Alliance Company lent their engine, a fiery Marquess
played the pipe, and a committee of Countesses worked the pumps. The
figure was then invested in a new shirt, presented by Her Majesty,
against the cold weather.

20th.—A sailing party from Margate, finding themselves near _Urn_ bay,
resolved to drink _tea_. Mrs. Bullion, of Cheapside, one of the company,
proposed music in the air, and, being inspired by the water, volunteered
"The Land;" but, in getting up to C above, she overreached herself, and
fell into the sea below. At first, Mr. Bullion feared she would prove
_dead stock_ on his hands, but he soon saw she was _floating, capital_;
so he bargained with some _dredgers_ to give her an _hoister_ on board
again. The _natives_ were greatly alarmed at the occurrence.

OCT. 3rd.—Mrs. Belasco delivered her concluding Lecture on morality,
with illustrations, in the Saloon of the Haymarket Theatre.

7th.—The Penitentiary at Millbank was partly destroyed by fire; luckily
the flames were extinguished, without making an auto-da-fé of the fair
penitents, many of whom were insured by destiny from that sort of
untimely end. The treadmill was unfortunately burnt, to the great
inconvenience of several industrious persons who were practising on it,
to qualify themselves for places of service where there was a good deal
of running upstairs.

12th.—The paupers of Gripeham workhouse having been, under the new law,
deprived of their tobacco, deputed one old woman, as the _organ_ of the
rest, to demand a restoration of their _pipes_. The overseers withstood
her _fire_, and refused her _smoke_; however, at the suggestion of one
of their body who had learned Latin, they consented to allow her a
"_Quid_ pro quo."

NOV. 15th.—The Society for the Protection of Animals held its yearly
meeting. The report stated, that in Billingsgate their efforts had met
with great success. In the following meritorious cases the large silver
medal was awarded:—To Diana Finn, for cracking the necks of a pound of
eels before she skinned them; to Simon Soft, for boiling his lobsters in
cold water; to Ephraim Hacket, for crimping cod with a blunted knife;
and to Felix Flat, for refusing to open live oysters. In other quarters
humanity was also progressing, and prizes were given to Hans Lever, for
drubbing a donkey with the _thin_ end of his cudgel, at the request of
an officer of this Society; and to Nicodemus Nacks, for consenting to
keep a plaster on his pony's _raw_, except on pleasure parties, and
other occasions requiring extra persuasion. The thanks of the Society
were voted to Daniel Dozer, Esq., of New River Head, for using dead
worms as a bait: and the gold medal to the same gentleman, for his
practice of angling without hooking the fish. A premium was also offered
by the Society for some preparation of ox(h)ide of iron, which shall
enable a bullock's back to resist a whacking.

DEC. 7th.—Sir Harcourt Lees was frightened into fits by O'Connell's
ghost, which appeared in the shape of a moving _Mass_, with cloven feet,
a long _tail_, and the _Pope's eye_ in the middle of his forehead.

18th.—During the exhibition of the gas microscope, the water tigers,
irritated by the intense blaze of light to which they were exposed,
after several tremendous efforts to escape, broke from their
confinement, and sprang among the spectators. Three young ladies from a
boarding school were instantly devoured. The ferocious animals next
turned their attention to the governess and an old teacher, who, proving
rather tough, afforded time for their keeper to secure them, which he
did by re-absorbing them in a drop of water on the point of a needle.

[Illustration:

  NOVEMBER.—'Lord Mayor's Day'
]

 ┌─────────────┬───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
 │1836.]       │                       NOVEMBER.                       │
 ├─────────────┼───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
 │             │When good Sir John has carried his bill,               │
 │             │No dread of Term shall the poet fill,                  │
 │             │The Scholar shall _write_, and fear no _writ_,         │
 │             │No _White Cross bars_ shall _bar_ his wit,             │
 │             │The _Fleet, unmann'd_, no more alarm,                  │
 │             │The _King's Bench_ be but _an empty Form_.             │
 ├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │ M│ Season's │              =Odd Matters.=              │  WEATHER.  │
 │ D│  Signs.  │                                          │            │
 ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│Murky     │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 2│burky     │            LORD MAYOR'S SHOW.            │stage-coach │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 3│damp      │    I SING of a jolly day,                │ traveller  │
 │  │          │    A civical holiday;                    │            │
 │ 4│and       │    Some call a folly day:                │ ♃ △ ☍ □ ♂  │
 │  │          │    Weather is foggified;                 │            │
 │ 5│drear     │    Mechanics get groggified,             │            │
 │  │          │    Citizens hoggified:                   │ journeyeth │
 │ 6│see       │    The rain it is drizzling,             │            │
 │  │          │    Mizzling, frizzling;                  │            │
 │ 7│this      │    Streets are all slippery;             │   ♈ ☊ ♍    │
 │  │          │    Girls sport their frippery:           │            │
 │ 8│gloomy    │    Sweethearts are squeezing 'em,        │            │
 │  │          │    Pleasing 'em,—teazing 'em.            │  outside   │
 │ 9│month     │    Rabble are bawling, O!                │            │
 │  │          │    Women are squalling, O!               │            │
 │10│appear    │    Banners are waving,                   │the vehicle;│
 │  │          │    Policemen are staving                 │            │
 │11│London    │    On heads misbehaving:                 │            │
 │  │          │    Ward beadles bustling,                │            │
 │12│fill'd    │    Pickpockets hustling;                 │  □ ♃ △ ♂   │
 │  │          │    People tip-toeing it:                 │            │
 │13│with      │    Swell mob are going it,               │            │
 │  │          │    Making sly snatches                   │    when    │
 │14│slush     │    At brooches and watches.              │            │
 │  │          │    Horses are neighing,                  │ he should  │
 │15│and fog   │    Urchins huzzaing;                     │            │
 │  │          │    Trumpets are braying;                 │   snugly   │
 │16│looks     │    Trombones are grumbling,              │            │
 │  │          │    Bassoons are rumbling,                │  ensconce  │
 │17│just      │    Clarinets speaking,                   │            │
 │  │          │    Piccoloes squeaking.                  │  himself   │
 │18│like an   │See, there goes the armour man;           │            │
 │  │          │Ne'er was a calmer man;                   │  within;   │
 │19│Irish     │Sitting inside the _mail_, he             │            │
 │  │          │Looks a little bit paly.                  │            │
 │20│bog       │And hark! what a drumming!                │ ♈ ☍ ♉ ♋ ♎  │
 │  │          │The Lord Mayor is coming;                 │            │
 │21│every     │And here are the Aldermen,                │with divers │
 │  │          │There's very few balder men;              │            │
 │22│trouble   │And there march the Livery,               │            │
 │  │          │Looking quite shivery;                    │ and sundry │
 │23│now       │In and out straggling,                    │            │
 │  │          │Thro' the mud draggling.                  │            │
 │24│seems     │I'm sure the poor sinners                 │  ♊ ♒ ☿ ♍   │
 │  │          │Must long for their dinners.              │            │
 │25│double    │Well, now the fun's over                  │            │
 │  │          │They'll fatten in clover;                 │            │
 │26│and the   │And afterwards drink on it.               │ such-like  │
 │  │          │So, what do you think on it?              │            │
 │27│worst     │Don't it shew quite effectual             │            │
 │  │          │The March Intellectual?                   │            │
 │28│in all    │                                          │   ♀ ♈ ☍    │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │29│the       │                                          │    sad     │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │30│year.     │                                          │ mischances │
 └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘


      _Extracts from the Proceedings of the Association of British
          Illuminati, at their Annual Meeting, held in Dublin,
                             August, 1835._

DR. HOAXUM read an interesting paper on the conversion of moonbeams into
substance, and rendering shadows permanent, both of which he had
recently exemplified in the establishment of some public companies,
whose prospectuses he laid upon the table.

Mr. Babble produced his calculating machine, and its wonderful powers
were tested in many ways by the audience. It supplied to Captain Sir
John North an accurate computation of the distance between a quarto
volume and a cheesemonger's shop; and solved a curious question as to
the decimal proportions of cunning and credulity, which, worked by the
rule of allegation, would produce a product of 10,000_l._

Professor Von Hammer described his newly-discovered process for breaking
stones by an algebraic fraction.

Mr. Crowsfoot read a paper on the natural history of the Rook. He
defended their _caws_ with great _effect_, and proved that there is not
a _grain_ of truth in the charges against them, which only arise from
_Grub_ Street malice.

The Rev. Mr. Groper exhibited the skin of a toad, which he discovered
alive in a mass of sandstone. The animal was found engaged on its
auto-biography, and died of fright on having its house so suddenly
broken into, being probably of a nervous habit from passing so much time
alone. Some extracts from its memoir were read, and found exceedingly
interesting. Its thoughts on the "silent system" of prison discipline,
though written _in the dark_, strictly agreed with those of our most
_enlightened_ political economists.

Dr. Deady read a scientific paper on the manufacture of Hydro-_gin_,
which greatly interested those of the association who were members of
Temperance Societies.

Mr. Croak laid on the table an essay from the Cabinet Makers' Society,
on the construction of _frog-stools_.

Professor Parley exhibited his speaking machine, which distinctly
articulated the words "_Repale! Repale!_" to the great delight of many
of the audience. The learned Professor stated that he was engaged on
another, for the use of his Majesty's Ministers, which would already
say, "My Lords and Gentlemen;" and he doubted not, by the next meeting
of Parliament, would be able to pronounce the whole of the opening
speech.

Mr. Multiply produced, and explained the principle of, his exaggerating
machine. He displayed its amazing powers on the mathematical point,
which, with little trouble, was made to appear as large as a
coach-wheel. He demonstrated its utility in all the relations of
society, as applied to the failings of the absent—the growth of a tale
of scandal—the exploits of travellers, &c. &c.

The Author of the "Pleasures of Hope" presented, through a member, a
very amusing Essay on the gratification arising from the throttling of
crying children; but as the ladies would not leave the room, it could
not be read.

Captain North exhibited some shavings of the real Pole, and a small
bottle which, he asserted, contained scintillations of the Aurora
Borealis, from which, he stated, he had succeeded in extracting pure
gold. He announced that his nephew was preparing for a course of similar
experiments, of which he expected to know the result in October. The
gallant Captain then favoured the company with a dissertation on
phrenology, of which, he said, he had been a believer for thirty years.
He stated that he had made many valuable verifications of that science
on the skulls of the Esquimaux; and that, in his recent tour in quest of
subscribers to his book, his great success had been mainly attributable
to his phrenological skill; for that, whenever he had an opportunity of
feeling for soft places in the heads of the public, he knew in a moment
whether he should get a customer or not. He said that whether in the
examination of ships' heads or sheep's heads—in the choice of horses or
housemaids, he had found the science of pre-eminent utility. He related
the following remarkable phrenological cases:—A man and woman were
executed in Scotland for murder on presumptive evidence; but another
criminal confessed to the deed, and a reprieve arrived the day after the
execution. The whole country was horrified; but Captain North having
examined their heads, he considered, from the extraordinary size of
their destructive organs, that the sentence was prospectively just, for
they must have become murderers, had they escaped hanging then. Their
infant child, of six months old, was brought to him, and perceiving on
its head the same fatal tendencies, he determined to avert the evil; for
which purpose, by means of a pair of moulds, he so compressed the skull
in its vicious propensities, and enlarged it in its virtuous ones, that
the child grew up a model of perfection. The second instance was of a
married couple, whose lives were a continued scene of discord till they
parted. On examining their heads scientifically, he discovered the
elementary causes of their unhappiness. Their skulls were unfortunately
too thick to be treated as in the foregoing case; but, causing both
their heads to be shaved, he by dint of planing down in some places, and
laying on padding in others, contrived to produce all the requisite
phrenological developments, and they were then living a perfect pattern
of conjugal felicity, "a thing which could not have happened without
phrenology." (This dissertation was received with loud applauses from
the entire assembly, whose phrenological organs becoming greatly
excited, and developed in an amazing degree by the enthusiasm of the
subject, they all fell to examining each others' bumps with such
eagerness that the meeting dissolved in confusion.)


                         THE NOTORIOUS UNKNOWN.

 "Oh, no! we never mention HER, HER name is never heard;"
 And how the deuce to find it out, I knew not, on my word.
 But tho' I could not tell HER name, HER face I'd often seen,
 "She stood among the glitt'ring throng," with Jacky in the green.

 A ladle in one hand she bore, a salt-box in the other;
 And of the Sooty Cupids near, she seemed the teeming mother.
 "I met HER at the Fancy Fair," with Fancy lads around her,
 And with a blow she laid one low, as flat as any flounder.

 "I saw HER at the Beulah Spa," along with Gipsey Joe,
 A-riding on a donkey rough, vitch, somehow, vouldn't go.
 I saw HER ply her sybil art, and pick up cash like fun,
 For heads and tails she gave them hearts, and pleasur'd every one.

 "I saw HER at the Masquerade," along with Nimming Ned,
 Achieve those feats, where fingers light work nimbler than the head.
 I saw HER too at All-Max once (not Almack's in the west),
 "'Twas in a crowd,"—her voice was loud: I mustn't tell the rest.

 I saw HER at the "Central Court," (it gave me quite a shock,)
 Surrounded by her body guard, she stood within the dock.
 And then I heard a little man with solemn voice proclaim,
 ('Twas rue to me, and wormwood too), that ALIAS was her name!


                            THE FIVE BELLES.

            "My own blue belle, my pretty blue belle,"
            How deeply in love with thee I fell!
            And graciously you receiv'd my suit,
            While digging away at a Hebrew root:
            But ah! you us'd me wondrous shabby,
            To turn me off for a Jewish Rabbi.

            My next fair belle was a lively dame;
            But I found if I dar'd to advance my claim,
            And ventur'd to marry the lovely _Bel_,
            I should take to my arms the _Dragon_ as well.
            For such an event I was too old a stager,
            So I yielded her up to a triple Bob Major.

            Now belle the third was a charming belle,
            Who many a tale of love could tell;
            But just as I thought that "constancy
            Was only another name for she,"
            Away she ran with an Irish fellow,
            And basely proved a _horrida Bella_.

            The belle my fancy next did choose
            Stood six feet high in her low-heel'd shoes;
            But when I took courage my tale to tell,
            My _Belle Sauvage_ prov'd a _savage belle_.
            I didn't much mind her being a strapper,
            But I couldn't endure her terrible clapper.

            But belle the fifth was the belle for me;
            I was charm'd by her sweet taciturnity.
            To ring this belle I a wish possess'd,
            But _dumb bells_ always open the _chest_,
            Which made me fear she'd get to the _till_,
            And so, alas! I'm a bachelor still.


                     Advertisements Extraordinary.

THE INDUSTRIOUS FLEAS will continue to perform their operations in every
part of the British dominions, most especially during the Summer months,
to the infinite delight and satisfaction of millions of his Majesty's
subjects, many thousands of whom have expressed themselves quite tickled
with their ingenuity.

                  *       *       *       *       *

MR. PUFF respectfully announces that he is authorized to state, that he
has received instructions to declare, that he will submit to public
competition the whole of the superb and genuine HOUSEHOLD FURNITURE and
EFFECTS of the late SIMON SQUANDER, Esq., deceased: comprising, among
other valuables, a capital cast-iron library, containing upwards of 5000
wooden volumes, bound in calf, and 500 illegible manuscripts beautifully
printed; an excellent self-willed never acting pianoforte; a superb
suite of wrought iron window curtains; four splendid cobweb carpets; an
invisible sofa; two capital India-rubber mirrors; a large stock of flint
table and bed-linen; straw fenders and fire irons; leather
looking-glasses; a set of calico dining tables, with chairs _en suite_;
about 10,000 ounces of pewter plate; and an excellent paper clock,
warranted not to go. The whole will be sold by auction, without reserve,
on the First of April next. Catalogues to be had of the Auctioneer.

                  *       *       *       *       *

MOST REMARKABLE FACT!—There are now living at Manchester, six persons,
whose united ages reach the enormous amount of one hundred and twenty
years! And, strange to say, they are all in full possession of their
ordinary faculties!

[Illustration:

  DECEMBER—'Boxing Day'
]

 ┌─────────────┬───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
 │1836.]       │                       DECEMBER.                       │
 ├─────────────┼───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
 │             │Holiday joys have some alloys,—                        │
 │             │    For many they're bitter pills,                     │
 │             │When all the dearest _ducks_ come home                 │
 │             │    From school, with their long _bills_,              │
 │             │And the noisy waits at midnight chime,                 │
 │             │Convince you it is _Wakation_ time.                    │
 ├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │ M│ Season's │              =Odd Matters.=              │  WEATHER.  │
 │ D│  Signs.  │                                          │            │
 ├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 1│The       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                "BOXIANA."                │            │
 │ 2│season's  │                                          │    Now     │
 │  │          │I HATE the very name of _box_;            │            │
 │ 3│signs     │    It fills me full of fears:            │would it not│
 │  │          │It 'minds me of the woes I've felt        │            │
 │ 4│this      │    Since I was young in years.           │ be better  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │ 5│month     │They sent me to a Yorkshire school,       │ ⚹ ♄ ♓ ☉ ♄  │
 │  │          │    Where I had many knocks;              │            │
 │ 6│do        │For there my schoolmates _box'd_ my ears, │            │
 │  │          │    Because I couldn't _box_.             │            │
 │ 7│greatly   │                                          │ than such  │
 │  │          │I pack'd my _box_; I pick'd the locks;    │            │
 │ 8│vary      │    And ran away to sea;                  │            │
 │  │          │And very soon I learnt to _box_           │            │
 │ 9│in        │    The compass merrily.                  │   ☌ ♄ ♂    │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │10│manner    │I came ashore—I call'd a coach,           │            │
 │  │          │    And mounted on the _box_;             │  weather   │
 │11│too       │The coach upset against a post,           │            │
 │  │          │    And gave me dreadful knocks.          │   wisdom   │
 │12│that's    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │I soon got well; in love I fell,          │  as this,  │
 │13│most      │    And married Martha Cox;               │            │
 │  │          │To please her will, at fam'd _Box_ Hill,  │            │
 │14│extr'or-  │    I took a country _box_.               │ ☽ ☿ ♍ ♊ ♉  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │15│dinary:   │I had a pretty garden there,              │            │
 │  │          │    All border'd round with _box_;        │   that I   │
 │  │          │                                          │   should   │
 │16│if you    │But ah, alas! there liv'd, next door,     │            │
 │  │          │    A certain Captain Knox.               │   arrive   │
 │17│are       │                                          │            │
 │  │          │He took my wife to see the play;—         │ at the end │
 │18│rich      │    They had a private _box_;             │            │
 │  │          │I jealous grew, and from that day         │of my tether│
 │19│why       │I hated Captain Knox.                     │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │20│then      │I sold my house—I left my wife;—          │   ♃ ♄ ♍    │
 │  │          │    And went to Lawyer Fox,               │            │
 │21│you're    │Who tempted me to seek redress            │            │
 │  │          │    All from a jury _box_.                │  without   │
 │22│warm      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │I went to law, whose greedy maw           │            │
 │23│and       │    Soon emptied my strong _box_;         │   having   │
 │  │          │I lost my suit, and cash to boot,         │            │
 │24│jolly,    │    All thro' that crafty Fox.            │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ prophecied │
 │25│but if    │The name of _box_ I therefore dread,      │            │
 │  │          │    I've had so many shocks;              │            │
 │26│you're    │They'll never end,—for when I'm dead      │  ☍ ♀ ☽ ♐   │
 │  │          │    They'll nail me in a _box_.           │            │
 │27│poor,—    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │anything at │
 │28│cold      │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │ all about  │
 │29│hungry    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │the matter? │
 │30│melan-    │                                          │            │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 │31│choly.    │                                          │ ♀ ♐ ♄ ♊ ♑  │
 │  │          │                                          │            │
 └──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘


                                FINALE.

         My task is done! but, ere I "drown my book,"
         And "break my staff," I'll take a parting look.

           If I have made a fool, in sportive fit,
         A lapstone meet, whereon to shape my wit,
         So gently have I used him, that, with care,
         He'll serve my purpose for another year:
         As old Majendie skinned the Italian hound,
         And time too short for demonstration found,
         Then told his pupils, if they managed right,
         They'd keep the dog alive another night.

           Of embryo asses I've a pretty store,
         Who crave a flaying in a twelvemonth more;
         Subjects of every colour and complexion,
         Contending for the honour of dissection;
         While some there are, who, blest in their condition,
         Would waive the honours of my exhibition.
         As bashful Bishops, at an ordination,
         Cry "_Nolo_," to the gentle invitation:
         And some, the only merit of whose life
         Will be, their forming victims for my knife.

           Now, John,—not Sir John Ross—I mean John Bull
         Thou silly, soft, good-natured, guileless gull!
         Why wilt thou let each knave enrich his nest
         With treasures pilfered from thy downy breast?
         Pill-bolting glutton of all sorts of trash!
         In jest or earnest needing still the lash,
         Thy cure (no sinecure) will keep, I fear,
         My rod in pickle for another year.

[Illustration]



                                  THE
                             COMIC ALMANACK
                               FOR 1837.


 ┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┐
 │                        JANUARY.                        │      [1837.│
 ├──┬─────────────────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┤
 │  │  Now folks trudge on with muffled faces,                         │
 │  │To meet Dan Winter's cold embraces;                               │
 │  │But he has not the freezing air,                                  │
 │  │That upstart, purse-proud worldlings wear.                        │
 │  │  Now mischief-making urchins plan,                               │
 │  │With glassy slide, the fall of man;                               │
 │  │But Summer friends, with Wint'ry looks,                           │
 │  │Are slipp'rier far than icy brooks.                               │
 ├──┼─────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │D.│           =Great Events and Odd Matters.=           │_Prognosti- │
 │  │                                                     │fications._ │
 ├──┼─────────────────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│Curaçoa taken (rather too freely).                   │            │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │ 2│The _Sandwich_ Islands discovered by a _Cook_.       │  Touching  │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │ 3│  Let shame and foul disgrace betide the enervated   │ the Stars, │
 │  │  land, which                                        │            │
 │  │  Forsakes old English suppers for that make-believe,│            │
 │  │  a Sandwich.                                        │            │
 │ 4│                                                     │  ♄ ☉ ☌ ♊   │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │ 5│Dividends due. Very _Consoling_, but "Take care of   │            │
 │  │  your pockets!"                                     │            │
 │  │                                                     │   (That    │
 │ 6│TWELFTH DAY. _Hilarity_ Term ends.                   │            │
 │  │                                                     │ is to say  │
 │ 7│                                                     │            │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │ 8│General Election.   _Tower Hamlets voters soak their_│  ☊ ♄ ♂ ☉   │
 │  │  Clay, _and vote_                                   │            │
 │  │_for_ Lushington.—_Lambeth ditto give three_         │            │
 │ 9│hips _for_ Hawes, _and huzza_!                       │   with a   │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │10│[Illustration]                                       │ figurative │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │11│_Cayenne_ taken by as-_salt_, 1809. Enemy well       │tangibility,│
 │  │  _peppered_.                                        │            │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │12│                                                     │    ⚹ ☉     │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │13│                                                     │            │
 │  │                                                     │seeing they │
 │14│[Illustration]                                       │            │
 │  │                                                     │ are out of │
 │15│                                                     │            │
 │  │                                                     │ our reach) │
 │16│                FROZE-OUT GARDENERS.                 │            │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │17│  Poor half-starv'd, froze-out Gardeners, good       │    ♂ ♄     │
 │  │  gentlefolk, we be—                                 │            │
 │  │  Hard lines for us, my masters all, as ever you did │            │
 │  │  see;                                               │            │
 │18│  We sits among the trenches in a shake and in a     │            │
 │  │  shiver,                                            │            │
 │  │  And our poor little babbies are without a bit of   │I do opine, │
 │  │  kiver;                                             │            │
 │19│  Like snails among the cabbages, they curls         │            │
 │  │  themselves around,                                 │            │
 │  │  Or, like the little caterpillars, grubbing on the  │    that    │
 │  │  ground.                                            │            │
 │20│  We wanders home and dreads to hear of some mishap  │            │
 │  │  or other,                                          │            │
 │  │  And scarcely dares to ax the pretty darlings       │  whereas,  │
 │  │  "_how's your mother?_"                             │            │
 │21│                                                     │            │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │22│Lord BACON born. (Query, The _Fry-er_.)              │  ♏ ♄ ☌ ♀   │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │23│  _She sold her mangle_ long ago,—'twere better far  │            │
 │  │  nor prigging;                                      │            │
 │  │  For we only turns up spades whene'er we tries our  │ according  │
 │  │  hands at digging.                                  │            │
 │24│  Without some rain 'tis all in vain. Alack! our     │            │
 │  │  hearts is breaking,                                │            │
 │  │  And surely we should break our _teeth_ if we should│ to Hamlet, │
 │  │  go a-_raking_:                                     │            │
 │25│  So, night and day, we ever pray the frost it may be│            │
 │  │  going,                                             │            │
 │  │  No more they'll let us _owe_, unless we gets a     │            │
 │  │  little _hoe_ing:                                   │            │
 │26│  The parish board don't heed our word; but, looking │    ♌ ☋     │
 │  │  black or blue,                                     │            │
 │  │  They reads the Hact o' Parliament, and then cries— │            │
 │  │  "_Who are you?_"                                   │            │
 │27│  So help the froze-out Gardeners, kind masters every│ there are  │
 │  │  one,                                               │            │
 │  │  For while _you_'re sporting on the ice, _we_'re    │            │
 │  │  starving till it's gone.                           │            │
 │28│                                                     │more things │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │29│                                                     │     in     │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │30│Lecture on _Heads_ at Whitehall. Price, a _crown_.   │ heaven and │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │31│Ben Jonson born. "Shikspur—who wrote Shikspur?"      │   earth    │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 └──┴─────────────────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘

[Illustration:

  JANUARY,—Last Year's Bills.
]


                            CHRISTMAS BILLS.

                       (_Mrs. Figgins loquitur._)

            Merry Christmas and happy New Year!
              Here's a bundle of "little accounts:"
            And their bearers left word they'd be glad
              If you'd settle their little amounts.
            They've all got "large sums" to "make up,"
              And cannot wait longer, they swear:
            So I wish you the joys of the season—
              Merry Christmas and happy New Year!

            Here's the doctor's—a horrid long bill—
              And he vows he's as badly as you;
            For his patients wont pay him a groat,
              And he's dying of _Tick_ Doloreux.
            But he says he's consulted a friend,
              A lawyer that lives very near:
            So I wish you the joys of the season—
              Merry Christmas and happy New Year!

            The surgeon's is not a whit less:
              At its items I really shiver'd:
            A hundred for Sally's confinement;
              A hundred to "Bill delivered."
            A hundred for mixtures and pills
              (I think it's uncommonly dear):
            But I wish you the joys of the season—
              Merry Christmas and happy New Year!

            The baker has brought you a roll
              Which will take you a month to digest:
            He looks most uncommonly crusty,
              And says that, of all trades, he's blest
            If a baker's is not the most _kneady_;
              And hints at John _Dough_; and I fear—
            But I wish you the joys of the season,
              Merry Christmas and happy New Year!

            The poult'rer his "Game Bill" has brought:
              This year's—and last year's in addition,
            Twelve guineas for Black-cock alone,
              Which I think is a _grouse_ imposition.
            Ten guineas for pheasants and hares!
              And he charges his ven'son as _deer_.
            But I wish you the joys of the season—
              Merry Christmas and happy New Year!

            Here's your butcher—the city M.P.—
              Begs to "_ax_ leave to bring in his _bill_."
            It takes up six folio pages:
              Good heavens! it's as long as a will.
            He says times are quite out of _joint_;
              And he _must_ have the cash; so, my dear,
            I wish you the joys of the season—
              Merry Christmas and happy New Year!

            Your grocer abuses you _grossly_,
              Your hatter, and tailor _surtout_;
            Your saddler's been going on sadly,
              And your green-grocer looks very blue.
            The brewer is down in the hall,
              And wont stir till he's paid for his beer;
            So I wish you the joys of the season—
              Merry Christmas and happy New Year!

            Then there's _my_ little bill of two hundred
              For laces and trimmings—but laws!
            You wont grudge your poor rib a few ribbons;
              Will you, duck?—and ten guineas for gauze.
            And a hundred for bonnets and hats,
              And my last di'mond set—such a dear!—
            Kiss me, love! Oh! the joys of the season!
              Merry Christmas and happy New Year!

            And the ponies—my pet little Grey,
              And Miss Slimlegs, and Giraffe, and Beauty:
            (But you know, love, they're all under size,
              And so don't pay a farthing of duty;)
            The coach-hacks, _but_ two hundred pounds:
              (We don't drive our own tits—_that's_ dear:)
            So I wish you the joys of the season—
              Merry Christmas and happy New Year!

            And, oh dear! here's a note from your steward!
              He says your estate he's been round,
            And examined your books and your papers;
              And you can't pay a crown in the pound.
            There's writs out against you by scores;
              You're surrounded by tipstaves and bums;
            So I wish you, my love, a good Christmas!
              And a happy New Year—when it comes!

[Illustration:

  FEBRUARY.—Valentine's Day.
]

 ┌──────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬──────────────┐
 │                      FEBRUARY.                       │        [1837.│
 ├──┬───────────────────────────────────────────────────┴──────────────┤
 │  │No more the farmer's dame shall rue                               │
 │  │The slaughter of her poultry crew;                                │
 │  │Compell'd, this month, to sign a truce                            │
 │  │With turkey, donkey, pig, and goose,                              │
 │  │The Cockney Sportsman grounds his arms,                           │
 │  │And dicky birds are free from harms;                              │
 │  │Percussion guns become a jest,                                    │
 │  │Put on their _caps_, and _go to rest_.                            │
 ├──┼───────────────────────────────────────────────────┬──────────────┤
 │D.│          =Great Events and Odd Matters.=          │ _Prognosti-  │
 │  │                                                   │ fications._  │
 ├──┼───────────────────────────────────────────────────┼──────────────┤
 │ 1│New River begun, 1608. Drunk _at a Temperance      │     than     │
 │  │  meeting_ 1836.                                   │              │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │ 2│_Candle_MAS DAY. Some _dark_ affair now brought to │   ☍ ♀ △ ♐    │
 │  │  _light_.                                         │              │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │ 3│BLAISE. "Farmers, look to your ricks!"—SWING.      │              │
 │  │                                                   │  are dreamt  │
 │ 4│A _fair_ warms the bosom of Old Father Thames,     │              │
 │  │  1814.                                            │              │
 │  │                                                   │  of in our   │
 │ 5│                                                   │              │
 │  │[Illustration]                                     │ philosophy,  │
 │ 6│                                                   │              │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │ 7│SHROVE TUES. A great _Fry_-day. Mrs. FRY           │    ♀ ⚹ ♎     │
 │  │  _pan_-egyrised.                                  │              │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │ 8│                                                   │              │
 │  │                                                   │    so are    │
 │ 9│[Illustration]                                     │              │
 │  │                                                   │ there other  │
 │10│                                                   │              │
 │  │                                                   │   aspects,   │
 │11│Sir Jeffery Dunstan. "No real _k_night."           │              │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │12│1 SUNDAY IN LENT. _Corporal_ punishment promoted by│   ⊕ ♄ ♌ ♀    │
 │  │  _General_ Fast.                                  │              │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │13│                                                   │   besides    │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │14│VALENTINE. All Fools' Day.                         │   sideral    │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │15│                                                   │    ones,     │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │16│           VALENTINE TO MISS MARTINEAU.            │   that do    │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │17│"Come, live with me, and be my love,"              │ marvellously │
 │  │And we to all the world will prove                 │              │
 │18│"That hill and valley, grove and field"            │  influence   │
 │  │Are waste, if Nature's stores they yield;          │              │
 │19│While rustic joys and simple swains                │     ♉☊♀      │
 │  │Are nought compared to rich men's gains.           │              │
 │20│We'll demonstrate, to please the Tabbies,          │  and affect  │
 │  │That none but boobies will have babbies,           │              │
 │21│And dose and diet all the nation,                  │     us.      │
 │  │To check the growing population.                   │              │
 │22│Our virgin thoughts, as pure as "_vargis_,"        │     ♐ ♋      │
 │  │Will ne'er increase the public charges;            │              │
 │23│So cease in frowns thy face to deck,               │     The      │
 │  │Thy mind's the best _preventive check_.            │              │
 │24│                                                   │configurations│
 │  │[Illustration]                                     │              │
 │  │  [Illustration]                                   │              │
 │25│                                                   │    of the    │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │26│[Illustration]                                     │constellations│
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │27│                                                   │   ♀ ♅ ⚹ ☿    │
 │  │                                                   │    do not    │
 │28│Hare-hunting ends. Cats'-skins rise.               │  augur more  │
 └──┴───────────────────────────────────────────────────┴──────────────┘


                            VALENTINE'S DAY.

             Oh! love, love, love, love, love, love, love!
                 What plaguy work you make!
             From New Year's day to New Year's day
                 No rest you seem to take.

             And yet you're but a little chap:
                 To me it seems most odd,
             That folks should truckle thus to thee,
                 Thou Semi-Demi-God!

             The day of all the livelong year
                 That you most brightly shine,
             Is February's fourteenth day,
                 Illustrious Valentine.

             Oh! then what breaking of young hearts!
                 What fits! what swoons! what cries!
             And sobs of ev'ry kind and sort,
                 And _sighs_ of ev'ry _size_!

             No day makes such a stir as this:
                 (Not even the king's natal:)
             Of all the fêtes, O Valentine!
                 Thy _fête_ is the most _fatal_.

             All other _feasts_ are sinking _fast_,
                 But yours shall ne'er decline:
             And oh! among _read letter_ days,
                 What day can match with thine?

             All now to Love their homage pay:
                 From him that guides the plough,
             To him that guides the state;—the king
                 Himself's a _court-ier_ now.

             Love leads poor mortals such a dance
                 O'er hill and over plain,
             The world seems like one vast quadrille
                 The figure, _Ladies' chain_.

             In fact, 'tis Nature's grand _Court_ day,
                 When high and low you meet:
             The noble with his am'rous _train_;
                 The beggar with his _suite_.

             There's not a trade or mystery,
                 But love finds means to bind:
             The very blacksmith at his forge
                 Feels _hammer-ously_ inclined.

             Jack Ketch himself from Cupid's noose
                 By no means feels secure.
             The butcher—heretofore so hard—
                 Feels in his heart a skewer.

             The miser (harder far than both)
                 Now opens with avidity
             His chest—his heart, I meant to say:—
                 For _Cupid_, cuts _Cupidity_.

             The beasts are just in the same plight;
                 The horse, the ass, the steer:
             The lion's found his "own true love;"
                 The stag has got his _deer_.

             The little mouse, tho' small he be,
                 Courts after his own fashion:
             The very _mite's_ obliged to own
                 That love's a _mite-y_ passion.

             The very birds are caught: the crow
                 In amorous despondence,
             His carrion leaves, to _carry on_
                 A tender correspondence.

             And while Miss Grace invites her beau
                 With her at eve to wander,
             The goose, whose quill she gently wields,
                 Is gone to meet her gander.

             Since birds and beasts don't die for love,
                 T'were sillier than a goose,
             Because I can't tie Hymen's _knot_,
                 To dangle in a _noose_.

             Fresh bonds I'll seek, tho' I should roam
                 From England to Owhyee:
             And for my death (fixed for to-day)
                 Postpone it _sine die_.

 ┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬───────────────┐
 │                       MARCH.                        │[Illustration] │
 ├─────────────────────────────────────────────────────┼───────────────┤
 │Come, tell me what's MARCH like? A bully, I trow,    │               │
 │Who runs up, and blinds you by giving a _blow_;      │               │
 │Or a saucy Drill Serjeant, with swaggering airs,     │               │
 │Who the rustic recruit by his blustering scares;—    │               │
 │Or a Serjeant-_at-law_, who so craftily tries,       │               │
 │In a tempest of words, to _throw dust in your eyes_. │               │
 ├──┬──────────────────────────────────────────────────┼───────────────┤
 │D.│         =Great Events and Odd Matters.=          │  _Prognosti-  │
 │  │                                                  │  fications._  │
 ├──┼──────────────────────────────────────────────────┼───────────────┤
 │ 1│ST. DAVID'S DAY. Prince of _Whales_ caught at the │               │
 │  │  Nore, where he springs a _leak_.                │               │
 │  │                                                  │               │
 │ 2│Death of _Boil-eau_. Kitchen maids go into        │  commotions   │
 │  │  _mourning_.                                     │               │
 │  │                                                  │               │
 │ 3│                                                  │      and      │
 │  │              OPENING OF PARLIAMENT.              │               │
 │ 4│                                                  │consternations │
 │  │The tables of both Houses groan with Petitions    │               │
 │  │  from all classes                                │               │
 │ 5│of His Majesty's subjects. Among the most         │      ♄ ♉      │
 │  │  important will be                               │               │
 │  │found the prayer of the half-starved _Hacks_ to be│               │
 │  │  exported to                                     │               │
 │ 6│_Otaheite_; the petition of the _Dogs_ against the│   to Great    │
 │  │  _truck_ system; the                             │               │
 │  │appeal of the _Cats_ to the King for an asylum, in│               │
 │  │  _Lap_-land, from                                │               │
 │ 7│the suit of the _Skinners'_ Company; the petition │   Britain,    │
 │  │  of the _Ducks_ to                               │               │
 │  │be presented by Mr. _Poulter_, for the            │               │
 │  │  discontinuance of Bean                          │               │
 │ 8│Feasts, to be supported by Mr. _Pease_; the       │    ♅ ☋ ♊ ☿    │
 │  │  memorial of the _Hogs_                          │               │
 │  │against breakfast _bacon_, and offering to prove  │               │
 │  │  it all _gammon_; the                            │               │
 │ 9│humble prayer of the Whitebait of Blackwall to be │    than do    │
 │  │  excused attendance                              │               │
 │  │at the Cabinet Ministers' dinners; ditto from Mr. │               │
 │  │  _Place_                                         │               │
 │10│(it is supposed neither will be dispensed with);  │ divers other  │
 │  │  the memorial of                                 │               │
 │  │the men of genius as to the foundation of a       │               │
 │  │  college for the cultivation                     │               │
 │11│of the _Muses_ among the _Happy-nine_ mountains,  │    aspects    │
 │  │  and the petition                                │               │
 │  │of the Royal Society of _Beggars_ for leave to    │               │
 │  │  hold their court                                │               │
 │12│in the ruins of _Rag_-land Castle.                │     ♌ ♑ ♓     │
 │  │                                                  │               │
 │13│                                                  │    denote     │
 │  │                                                  │               │
 │14│                                                  │    sundry     │
 │  │                                                  │               │
 │15│Isaac Walton died.                                │    mishaps    │
 │  │                                                  │               │
 │16│                     EPITAPH.                     │      and      │
 │  │                                                  │               │
 │17│Rejoice, ye little fishes all!                    │  mischances   │
 │  │  Ye tickle-bats and minnows!                     │               │
 │18│A human _pike_ without a _sole_,                  │    ⚹ ☍ ♀ ♈    │
 │  │  Has left this world of sinners.                 │               │
 │19│Ye gentle gentils, grieve no more!                │   to Little   │
 │  │  Your pangs perhaps he feels;                    │               │
 │20│For now a greedier _pike_, grim Death,            │   Britain;    │
 │  │  Has laid him by the h_eels_.                    │               │
 │21│                                                  │    and if     │
 │  │[Illustration]                                    │               │
 │22│                                                  │               │
 │  │                                                  │     ♑ ☌ ♎     │
 │23│_Cannon_-ization of Antwerp, 1832.                │               │
 │  │                                                  │  the lord of  │
 │24│Captain Parry among the Esquimaux. Great _Seal_   │               │
 │  │  stolen.                                         │               │
 │  │                                                  │   the Sixth   │
 │25│[Illustration]                                    │               │
 │  │                                                  │    House,     │
 │26│                                                  │               │
 │  │                                                  │               │
 │27│Easter Monday. Epping Hunt.                       │    ♊ ⚹ ♄ ♀    │
 │  │                                                  │               │
 │28│                                                  │     among     │
 │  │                                                  │               │
 │29│[Illustration]                                    │      the      │
 │  │                                                  │               │
 │30│                                                  │constellations,│
 │  │                                                  │               │
 │31│                                                  │      ☋ ♌      │
 └──┴──────────────────────────────────────────────────┴───────────────┘

[Illustration:

  MARCH.—Tossing the Pancake.
]


                     THOMAS GARDENER TO SALLY COOK.

"I tak up my pen with much pleasure to inform yew that i hav bean quiet
Mizzerabl evver sins i left my plase. Evvery think has gon rong from
that day to this, i hav ad no Turnups to speek of in my gardn & no Peas
in my mind. i offen think of the appy days we ust to spend, partickly
our Soft tewsdys wen yew ust to tos us up them nice apel friters wile
the rest of the sirvents was obleigt to put up with nothink but plane
pan caks without nayther apels nor sugger. O saly! i offen sets & thinks
that luv is jest like a friing pan & won's art like a pan cak frizzling
in the midl on it.

"Ive nevver repentid leveing but onst and thats evver sins. But i wasent
agoin to stand bean dun out of my perquizzits by masters pertending he
ad a rites to cum into the gardn wennever he likt & get my peeches &
necktrings, jest becaws it was hisn, and giv away my Cabidges and
Lettises without so much as with your Leaf or by your Leaf, to say
nothink about the rumpus he maid about them 2 or 3 graps & acusing me of
Boneing the Bone mannure, & wors then al, eaping them 2 tun of coles on
my hed wich i no moor stole em then yew did saly, & after turning me
away on account of the Coles wanting to Cokes me bak agen.

"Deer saly, my place hear is verry cumfuttabl, but i am verry
uncumfuttabl in it on acount of my Bean in sich a tendar pashun with
Yew. O lav, luv! i am grew as thin as a lath and hav found out wot it is
not to hav cuk for a swete hart. Our under ous made is verry fond on me
but wats the use of ous mades, won carnt heat brumes and skrubbin
brushs. O saly saly! yew wood ardly no me i am as week as a kittin, i
can scace andl my Spade & its all Hoeing to yew. i set ours & ours in
the forsing ous doing nothink but thinking of yewr perty face, & i offen
think ow appy we mite be with yewr 2 underd pound as yewr Grand muther
left yew, & yewr 50 pound in the saveing bank, & my 5 pound as Jorge
Hawl the squir's futman as is gone away ows me. We mite take a Publik
ous, the Pig & wissle for instants, & get a gud bisnes & be as appy as
the day is lung. Saly luv wat do yew say to me, let me no your mind, but
rimmember wat i sed about the Publik is strickly Privet.

"Deer saly, i carnt abuse my noo mastr & missus, at least not at
pressent, they are uncomon kind to me & so is al the fammaly. The 2
former blungs to a Linean sowsiaty & to ear em tawk aboat Bottany is
rely quite Transporting. We ad the annywal sho the uther day wich is
cunducktid in the most aprovd maner namely giving prises to al the
supskribers, wich givs gennaral sattisfaxion and advarnses siance. It
tuk place in the town all on wensdy last for Pinks Dailys and settera,
on wich okashun master was brote in Furst mule, & missus Furst fireball,
& i beg to anounce in the veggytibl line i was juged to be the Bigest
cabbige head out of 40. The sowsiaty has dun a gud deal of gud hear
abouts in regard of kichin gardn stuf, namely redishs so larg as not to
be told from carots, & peas like Led bulits, boath wich is nothink in
cumparryson of their turnups wich they hav at last suckseeded in growin
em so big & ollow as is gud for nothink but litle bys to make Jack a
lantans off. The sowsiaty increses annywaly evry ear, & oposishun is got
to sich a hite as yew woodent bleav. The uther day 1 poor felow, Bean
bete in his Carrots, axualy went ome & cut his Carrotid hartary.
Annother grate advarntidge is the onnerrery members dining togather
after the sho & eting up al the Best frute, by wich in Coarse they no
wear to aply to annother time wen they want anny. The rest is sold to
pay xpences. Allso it is a verry gud thing for the markit gardners, anny
1 of woom by paying 2 shilin entrants & sending in a 5 shilin baskit of
veggytibles stands a charnse of wining a ½ crown prise.

"For my own part i am Bcuming quite bottannycle & no the lattin to
evrythink. It wood sirprize my old butty James to ear me nocking the ard
words about. Tel him with my best cumplyments he nose nothink. For
instants Tel him a rose isent no sich thing but only a Pollyandrew,
allso by the same rule a Merrygold is nuthink but a Merryandrew, and sow
on of the rest. But studdiing Bottany doant Leav 1 much time for wurking
in the gardn, & i am sory to say my things is luking verry bad,
partickly my Dailys wich is groan quite Weekly, and my Melons cutting a
verry Melon-koly apearance.

"Owevver i must cum to an end, so deer saly rimmember my cumplements to
Jon butler, & Tummas futman, & Robbart cochman, & Deer saly doant Forget
yourself. And saly, doant hay nothink to say to your noo Gardner, for
betwene yew & me, as yew ust to say of cuks, gardners is no grate shaks.
So doant nevver luv nobdy but Me for deer saly my luv for yew is Hardy
Peranual. So gud Boy my deer Gal

                                          "from your hafectionet
                                                      "TUMMAS HOLLYOKE."

[Illustration:

  APRIL.—Return from the Races.
]

 ┌─────────────────┬───────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
 │ [Illustration]  │                      APRIL.                       │
 ├──┬──────────────┴───────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
 │  │Hail, shopping! dear delicious pain!                              │
 │  │Can April _showers_ control thy _reign_?                          │
 │  │Or check the pace of _slippery_ feet,                             │
 │  │Up Ludgate Hill or Regent Street:                                 │
 │  │Ah, me! what bliss to have a wife                                 │
 │  │So boldly dare the weather's strife!                              │
 │  │Careful alike,—or something worse,—                               │
 │  │Of draggled clothes and husband's purse.                          │
 ├──┼──────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬───────────┤
 │D.│           =Great Events and Odd Matters.=            │_Prognosti-│
 │  │                                                      │fications._│
 ├──┼──────────────────────────────────────────────────────┼───────────┤
 │ 1│_Sapientia._ Cockneys commence angling for            │ becoming  │
 │  │  red-herrings.                                       │           │
 │  │                                                      │           │
 │ 2│_Low_ Sunday. Vide Whitechapel, Primrose Hill, and St.│Lord of the│
 │  │  Giles's.                                            │           │
 │  │                                                      │           │
 │ 3│                                                      │Ascendant, │
 │  │                                                      │           │
 │ 4│                    [Illustration]                    │  ♀ ♅ ☊ ☿  │
 │  │                                                      │           │
 │ 5│                                                      │   doth    │
 │  │                                                      │           │
 │ 6│_Solon_ born. Judge Patteson retires from the bench to│  betoken  │
 │  │  take the                                            │           │
 │  │  chair of the British College of Health. _Old Lady   │           │
 │  │  Day._                                               │           │
 │ 7│                                                      │  _civil_  │
 │  │                                                      │           │
 │ 8│              │          THE WONDERFUL PILL.          │commotions │
 │  │              │                                       │           │
 │ 9│   A CARD.    │Take gamboge, as you find it, for      │in _Great_ │
 │  │              │  better or worse,                     │           │
 │  │              │And aloes,—the strongest,—a drug for a │           │
 │  │              │  horse;                               │           │
 │10│[Illustration]│A few peppermint drops, a few turns of │  France,  │
 │  │              │  a mill,                              │           │
 │  │              │And you get the contents of the        │           │
 │  │              │  Wonderful Pill.                      │           │
 │11│              │Take the head of a monkey, be-whisker'd│    ⚹ ♀    │
 │  │              │  & frizzl'd,                          │           │
 │  │   MORRISON   │The eyes of a tiger, be-demon'd and    │           │
 │  │              │  devill'd;                            │           │
 │12│   And Co.    │Add a magpie, a fox, and a vulture in  │           │
 │  │              │  one,                                 │           │
 │  │_Undertakers._│And a heart with less blood than a     │so, in like│
 │  │              │  pillar of stone:—                    │           │
 │13│     ———      │Take of folly, stupidity, weakness—    │           │
 │  │              │  enough:—                             │           │
 │  │   FUNERALS   │Of credulity, ignorance, fear—quantum  │  manner,  │
 │  │              │  suff:—                               │           │
 │14│  FURNISHED,  │These ingredients, combin'd with       │           │
 │  │              │  discernment & skill,                 │           │
 │  │    Corpse    │Give the knave and the dupe of the     │           │
 │  │  included.   │  Wonderful pill.                      │           │
 │15│                                                      │  ♈ ♀ ♄ ⚹  │
 │  │                                                      │           │
 │16│Mutiny at _Spit_-head. Cooks strike for wages.        │ doth the  │
 │  │                                                      │           │
 │17│                                                      │ascendancy │
 │  │                                                      │           │
 │18│                                                      │           │
 │  │                    [Illustration]                    │  ☉ ☌ ♂ ☽  │
 │19│                                                      │           │
 │  │                                                      │  of the   │
 │20│                                                      │           │
 │  │                                                      │Lady of the│
 │21│_Solomon's_ b. d. kept. Horrible plot to burn the City│           │
 │  │  of London, and murder all the inhabitants,          │  Seventh  │
 │  │  frustrated                                          │           │
 │22│  by "Atkins, Mayor." A.D. 1817.                      │           │
 │  │                                                      │  House,   │
 │23│                                                      │           │
 │  │        'Twas enough to create a confusion and pother,│           │
 │24│        For the nest of one Mayor to be found by      │   ♓ ☍ ♀   │
 │  │  _another_.                                          │           │
 │  │                                                      │           │
 │25│                                                      │   augur   │
 │  │                                                      │           │
 │26│                                                      │  divers   │
 │  │                    [Illustration]                    │           │
 │27│                                                      │    ♌ ♈    │
 │  │                                                      │           │
 │28│                                                      │ _uncivil_ │
 │  │                                                      │           │
 │29│_Thrashing_ commences in London. Macready thrashes    │commotions │
 │  │  Bunn, but gets nothing but _chaff_.                 │           │
 │  │                                                      │           │
 │30│_Rogue_ation S. A pickpocket ducked about this time.  │   among   │
 └──┴──────────────────────────────────────────────────────┴───────────┘


                             THE DERBY DAY.

  Here's a right and true list of all the running horses! Dorling's
    correct card for the Derby day!——Hollo, old un! hand us up one
    here, will you: and let it be a good un: there, now what's to pay?

  Only sixpence. Sixpence! I never gave more than a penny at Hookem
    Snivey in all my days.——May be not, your honour: but Hookem Snivey
    aint Hepsom: and sixpence is what every gemman, as is a gemman,
    pays.

  I can buy 'em for less than that on the course, and I'll wait till I
    get there. Beg your honour's pardon; they sells 'em a shillin' on
    the course. Give you threepence. They cost _me_ fippence ha'p'ny
    farden.

  Well, here then, take your list back again. Come, come; your honour
    shall have it at your own price:——I wouldn't sell it nob'dy else
    for no sitch money: but I likes the sound of your wice.

  Here, then, give me the change, will you?—Oh, certainly: but your
    honour's honcommon ard:——Let's see: you want two-and-threepence:
    wait a moment, there's another gentleman calling out for a card.

  Hollo, coachman, stop, stop! Coachman, do you hear? stop your horses
    this moment, and let me get down:——The fellow's run away behind an
    omnibus without giving me change out of my half-crown.

  That's alvays the vay they does on these here hoccasions: they calls
    it catching a flat:——Sorry I can't stop. Where's the new police?
    Pretty police truly, to suffer such work as that!

  Well, if ever I come to Epsom again! but let's look at the list:
    it's cost me precious dear!——Ascot, Mundig, Pelops! why, good
    heavens, coachman! they've sold me a list for last year!

  Oh, ma! look there! what a beautiful carriage! scarlet and gold
    liveries, and horses with long tails.——And stodge-full of
    gentlemen with mustaches, and cigars, and Macintoshes, and green
    veils:

  Whose is it, ma? Don't know, my dear; but no doubt belongs to some
    duke, or marquis, or other great nob.——Beg your pardon, ma'am: but
    that carriage as you're looking at is a party of the swell mob.

  And, oh my! ma: look at that other, full of beautiful ladies,
    dressed like queens and princesses.——Silks and satins and velvets,
    and gauze sleeves and ermine tippets: I never saw such elegant
    dresses:

  And how merry they look, laughing and smiling! they seem determined
    to enjoy the sport:——Who are they, ma? Don't know, dear; but no
    doubt they're Court ladies. Yes, ma'am, Cranbourne Court.

  How do, Smith? nice sort of tit you've got there. Very nice indeed:
    _very_ nice sort of mare.——Beautiful legs she's got, and
    nicely-turned ancles, and 'pon my word, a most elegant head of
    hair.

  How old is she? and how high does she stand? I should like to buy
    her if she's for sale.——Oh, she's quite young: not above
    five-and-twenty or thirty; and her height exactly a yard and a
    half and a nail:

  Price eighty guineas. She'd be just the thing for you; capital
    hunter as ever appeared at a fixture.——Only part with her on
    account of her colour; not that _I_ mind: only Mrs. S. don't like
    an _Oxford mixture_.

  Hehlo! you faylow! you person smoking the pipe, I wish you'd take
    your quadruped out of the way.——Quadruped, eh? you be blowed! it's
    no quadruped, but as good a donkey as ever was fed upon hay.

  Oh, my! ma; there's the course. What lots of people, and horses, and
    booths, and grand stands.——And what oceans of gipsies and
    jugglers, and barrel organs, and military bands!

  And was ever such sights of Savoyards and French women singing and
    E-O-tables;——And horses rode up and down by little boys, or tied
    together in bundles, and put up in calimanco stables;

  And look at that one, they call him _Boney_-parte. Did you ever in
    all your lifetime see a leaner?——And "Royal Dinner Saloons" (for
    royalty the knives might have been a little brighter, and the
    linen a little cleaner);

  And women with last-dying speeches in one hand, and in the other all
    the best new comic songs;——And, dear me! how funnily that
    gentleman sits his horse; for all the world just like a pair of
    tongs.

  And—clear the course! clear the course! Oh, dear! now the great
    Derby race is going to be run.——Twelve to one! Ten to one! Six to
    one! Nine to two! Sixteen to three! Done, done, done, done!

  Here they come! here they come! blue, green buff, yellow, black,
    brown, white, harlequin, and red!——Sir, I wish you'd stand off of
    our carriage steps: it's quite impossible to see through your
    head.

  There, now they're gone: how many times round? Times round, eh? why,
    bless your innocent face!——It's all over. All over! you don't say
    so! I wish I'd never come: such a take in! call that a Derby race!

  After being stifled with dust almost, and spoiling all our best
    bonnets and shawls and cloaks!——Call that a Derby race, indeed!
    I'm sure it's no Derby, but nothing but a right-down, regular
    _Oaks_.

  But come, let's have a bit of lunch: I'm as hungry as if I hadn't
    had a bit all day.——Smith, what are you staring at? why don't you
    make haste, and hand us the hamper this way?

  We shall never have anything to eat all day if you don't stir
    yourself, and not go on at that horrid slow rate.——Oh, Lord! the
    bottom's out, and every bit of meat and drink, and worse than all,
    the knives and forks and plate,—

  Stole and gone clean away! Good heavenlies! and I told you to keep
    your eye on the basket, you stupid lout!——Well, so I did, on the
    _top_ of it, but who'd have thought of their taking the bottom
    out?

  Well, never mind: they'll be prettily disappointed: for you know,
    betwixt you and me and the wall,——Our ivory knives and forks were
    nothing but bone; and our plate nothing but German silver, after
    all.

  What race is to be run next? No more, ma'am: the others were all run
    afore you come.——Well, then, have the horses put to, Smith: I'll
    never come a Derbying again; and let us be off home.

  Oh, lawk! what a stodge of carriages! I'm sure we shall never get
    off the course alive!——Oh, dear! do knock that young drunken
    gentleman off the box: I'm sure he's not in a fit state to drive.

  There, I told you how it would be. Oh, law! you've broke my arm, and
    compound-fractured my leg!——Oh! for 'eavens sake, lift them two
    'orrid osses off my darter! Sir, take your hands out of my
    pocket-hole, I beg!

  I say, the next time you crawl out of a coach window, I wish you
    wouldn't put your foot on a lady's chest.——Vell, if ever I seed
    such a purl as that (and I've seed many a good un in my time) I'll
    be blest.

  Oh, dear! going home's worse than coming! It's ten to one if ever we
    get back to Tooley Street alive.——Such jostling, and pushing, and
    prancing of horses! and always the tipsiest gentleman of every
    party _will_ drive.

  I wish I was one of those ladies at the windows; or even one of the
    servant maids giggling behind the garden walls.——And oh! there's
    Kennington turnpike! what shouting and hooting, and blowing those
    horrid cat-calls!

  Ticket, Sir? got a ticket? No, I've lost it. A shilling, then. A
    shilling! I've paid you once to-day.——Oh, yes, I suppose so: the
    old tale; but it wont do. That's what all you sporting gentlemen
    say.

  Hinsolent feller! I'll have you up before your betters. Come, sir,
    you musn't stop up the way. Well, I'll pay you again; but, oh
    Lord! somebody's stole my purse! good gracious, what shall I do!——
    I suppose I must leave my watch, and call for it to-morrow. Oh,
    ruination! blow'd if that isn't gone too!

  Get on there, will you?—Well, stop a moment. Will anybody lend me a
    shilling? No? Well, here then, take my hat:——But if I don't show
    you up in _Bell's Life in London_ next Sunday morning, my name's
    not Timothy Flat.

  Well, this is my last journey to Epsom, my last appearance on any
    course as a backer or hedger:——For I see plain enough a
    betting-book aint a day-book, and a Derby's a very different thing
    from a Ledger.


                      A PARALLEL CASE OF HARDSHIP.

A public subscription of several thousand pounds has been proposed to be
raised towards Mr. Buckingham's losses in India; quickened by the threat
that, if not sufficient to maintain him, he would be driven to the very
dreadful necessity of "devoting the remainder of his days to useful and
honourable labour!" To avert so dire a calamity, it will be proposed
among Mr. B.'s friends to revive the old project, and send him round the
world on a voyage of discovery and commerce. He is to sail on the
_first_ of next _April_, and will take with him passengers, emigrants,
and merchandize. First exploring the British coast, he will establish a
colony of tailors at _Sheer_-ness; then offer a consignment of saddles
and bridles to the inhabitants of _Ryde_; afterwards call for Mr. Ole
_Bull_ off _Cowes_, as fiddler to the crew; from thence he will despatch
a bale of _blankets_ to _Friez_-land, and of _gloves_ to the people of
_Pau_, taking in exchange some cheap _coffee_ for charitable purposes
from _Cham-berry_. Proceeding through the Channel, he will receive a few
distressed ladies at _Bride_port on an experimental voyage to
_Beau_-maris. The _late_ ministry will accompany him as far as the _Ex_,
and at _Ply-Mouth Sound_ he will take in the _substance_ of his next
parliamentary campaign. At the _Scilly_ Islands he will try to dispose
of a heavy consignment from Paternoster Row and some leading
establishments at the west-end of the town. He will leave the Poor Law
Commissioners at their headquarters at _Flint_; thence crossing the
Atlantic, he will deposit the bones of Mr. Carus Wilson at _Long_
Island, and offer a cargo of _soft-soap_ at _Washing_ton. He will next
despatch _Stone masons_ to the _Chipaway_ country, and Carpenters to the
_Chick-a-saws_, and he will be commissioned to get a lot of _old Joes_
exchanged at _New-Found-Land_. He will supply the natives of _Chili_
with _great coats_, carry _ham_ and _beef_ to the _Sandwich_ Islands,
and _broad cloth_ to _Bombay_. He will then reach the North Pole by
taking up his ship in an air balloon, and remaining suspended, till, as
the world goes round, the arctic circle is just under his feet, when he
will drop into the midst of it. Coming home from the North, about next
St. Swithin twelvemonths, he will bring us a little _Blue_ from the
Island of _Skye_, and call off the coast of _Ayr_-shire for another
scheme to raise the _wind_. On his arrival, the wooden guns at Jack
Straw's Castle will be fired, and the town illuminated with _moonshine_.

[Illustration:

  MAY.—Beating the Bounds.
]

 ┌────────────────┬────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
 │  [Illustration]│                        MAY.                        │
 ├──┬─────────────┴────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
 │  │Some modern sages, nothing can be flatter,                        │
 │  │Find _Bi_-polarity 'twixt mind and matter.                        │
 │  │There's prima facie proof, upon the whole,                        │
 │  │It _once_ existed in the _man_-maypole.                           │
 │  │But barring manners, you'll admit no less,                        │
 │  │He stands conspicuous for his pole-height-ness.                   │
 ├──┼──────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬───────────┤
 │D.│           =Great Events and Odd Matters.=            │_Prognosti-│
 │  │                                                      │fications._│
 ├──┼──────────────────────────────────────────────────────┼───────────┤
 │ 1│Chimney Sweepers' Jubilee. Emancipation of the        │           │
 │  │  _Blacks_.                                           │           │
 │  │                                                      │           │
 │ 2│                                                      │ the lords │
 │  │                                                      │           │
 │ 3│        ARCHERY.—MISS HIGGINS TO MISS FIGGINS.        │and ladies │
 │  │                                                      │           │
 │ 4│This comes to tell you, dearest Coz, I've been to     │    ☌ ♂    │
 │  │  Beulah Spa,                                         │           │
 │  │And there, among the Archer folk, have shone with such│           │
 │  │  éclat.                                              │           │
 │ 5│Well, I declare, 'tis charming sport to play at bows  │of all the │
 │  │  and arrows:                                         │           │
 │  │I do not wonder little boys so love to shoot at       │           │
 │  │  sparrows.                                           │           │
 │ 6│Some petty, trifling accidents occurr'd, I must       │ houses in │
 │  │  confess:                                            │           │
 │  │In taking aim, I tore a hole in Mrs. Simpkin's dress, │           │
 │ 7│Who gave me such a frightful look, as really made me  │  _Petty_  │
 │  │  shiver;                                             │           │
 │  │And put my nerves in such a way as caus'd my hand to  │           │
 │  │  quiver.                                             │           │
 │ 8│So, just as Mr. Foozle, in his most politest manner,  │France.[2] │
 │  │Was paying me fine compliments, and calling me Diana, │           │
 │ 9│My elbow slipped, and struck him such a blow upon the │   ♋ ♀ ♐   │
 │  │  nose,                                               │           │
 │  │As caus'd the blood to spirt about, and cover all his │           │
 │  │  clothes.                                            │           │
 │10│The boy who picks the arrows up, I shot right thro'   │   Again   │
 │  │  the ear:                                            │           │
 │  │I'm sure he'd but himself to blame,—he stood so very  │           │
 │  │  near:                                               │           │
 │11│'Twas only just a hundred yards from where the target │  ☽ ♀ ♐ ♄  │
 │  │  stood,                                              │           │
 │  │So how to help the hitting him would puzzle Robin     │           │
 │  │  Hood.                                               │           │
 │12│Altho' I'm sorry for the brat, I greatly pleas'd my   │ who will  │
 │  │  spark,                                              │           │
 │  │Who thought me quite a heroine to shoot so near the   │           │
 │  │  mark.                                               │           │
 │13│So pr'ythee come, my dearest Coz, Diana's bow to draw,│deny, that │
 │  │And join the gay Toxophilites who shoot at Beulah Spa.│           │
 │14│                                                      │           │
 │  │                                                      │    ♏ ♉    │
 │15│Whit-Monday. │Now madcap Mirth, with reckless air,    │           │
 │  │             │  Sports down gay Pleasure's tide;      │ _Juniper_ │
 │16│Whit-Tuesday.│With every care cast to the winds,      │           │
 │  │             │  And all his _Wits-untied_.            │hath a more│
 │17│                                                      │           │
 │  │                                                      │ malignant │
 │18│                                                      │           │
 │  │                                                      │ influence │
 │19│                    [Illustration]                    │           │
 │  │                                                      │   than    │
 │20│                                                      │           │
 │  │                                                      │_Jupiter?_ │
 │21│                                                      │           │
 │  │From Friars-Black and Chapel-White                    │           │
 │22│  They rush to Greenwich Fair,                        │  ♅ ☉ ☊ ☽  │
 │  │Each donkey-cart has its asses' load,                 │           │
 │23│  Each chaise owns three a pair.                      │           │
 │  │Some go by steam or sailing vessel,                   │ or, that, │
 │24│Some by the _Elephant and Castle_.                    │           │
 │  │                                                      │  in the   │
 │25│The vent'rous see that famous hill,                   │           │
 │  │  Renown'd for fate's decree,                         │olden times│
 │26│That they who tarry at the top                        │           │
 │  │  Shall soon the bottom see.                          │    of     │
 │  │                                                      │ pugilism, │
 │27│There's merry frisking on the grass,                  │           │
 │  │  For courting sporting people;                       │           │
 │28│And the curious seek the spying glass,                │  ♀ ♐ ♊ ♉  │
 │  │  To peep at Barking steeple.                         │           │
 │29│                                                      │           │
 │  │                                                      │           │
 │30│                                                      │           │
 │  │                                                      │           │
 │31│                                                      │           │
 └──┴──────────────────────────────────────────────────────┴───────────┘

Footnote 2:

  A _terra incognita_, lying in the vicinity of Tothill Fields.

[Illustration]

                 "Show his eyes and grieve his heart;
                 Come like shadows, so depart."

 COURTEOUS READER,

DIVARICATING from the beaten track of all my predecessors in the
Celestial Art, whose method it hath ever been to leave the
interpretation of their symbolical prefigurements to be explorated and
divined by the subtlety of the ingenious reader himself,—by the which
they did shroud, in a tenfold tenebrosity of Cimmerian gloom, their
no-meaning mysteries, and ambiguous puzzlements;—deviating, I say, from
such a course, I do herewith not only present thee, as hath been my
custom, with an Hieroglyphic "adapted to the times," but lifting the
veil of obscurity, wherein it is shrouded from vulgar apprehension, lay
patent and exposed the hidden meaning thereof.

It hath in it the three grand postulates or requirements of a veritable
Hieroglyphic, _videlicet_,—It is Astroscopical, Astrological, and
Prophetical:—

It is _Astroscopical_, as it is founded on an observation of the Stars.

It is _Astrological_, as it is indicative of planetary potency and lunar
influence; and

It is _Prophetical_, inasmuch as it not only presenteth the present, but
futurizeth the future.

_Taurus_, the _Bull_ (egregious John!), having, through a plethora of
purse, fallen into a dreamy mood, yielded himself up to a somniferous
influence, which becloudeth, with a misty obfuscation, his natural
senses; whereupon the megrims of his crazy brain do set themselves to
work, and conjure up certain airy visions of speculative aggrandizement.

Floating _in nubibus_ before his fancy's eye, are sundry bubbles, blown
by an Imp of Speculation, who ruleth the phantasies which do take John's
imagination captive. _Gemini_ (the Twins) in the similitude of a
joint-stock Company proffer him wealth;—baseless castles, of
unsubstantial fabric, resting on ether, do shadow forth his
brick-and-mortar predilections;—and a rail-road betwixt Dover and
Calais, uniting that which nature had dissevered, accomplisheth that
propinquity, which John ever affecteth for good neighbourhood and
fellowship; while _Luna_, who hath established a reciprocity rail-road
with our planet, grinneth at his gullibility, and marketh him for her
own.

Descending from the clouds, note we the state of his household matters,
while he thus dreameth in complacent security.

Thou mayest observe, gentle Reader, certain satellites of _Mercury_ (the
planet of thieves), who, under the impersonation of rooks, by an
immersion of their long beaks into the profundity of his pockets, are
abstracting his treasure. At the right hand of the dreamer, a cutpurse
knave of Spades, the apt symbol of rail-road diggers and miners, hath,
by an undermining trick, possessed himself of his bullion; while the
Demon of Gin, in the likelihood of a crafty serpent, entwined round his
lower extremities, shadoweth forth the ruin with which the fiend spirit
threateneth the props of the body politic,—the Industrious Classes. The
rats, those rogues in grain, are devouring his corn; and his faithful
Tray is gnawing at his dinner.

Surrounded as he is by wealth and plenty, shall we marvel, that when the
master of the house sleepeth on his post, knaves will cheat, thieves
will steal, and servants will pilfer?


                             A MAY-DAY LAY.

                      Hip, hip, huzza!
                      For Merry May!
                  More dear than tongues can tell,
              To ev'ry child of Phœbus,—and
                  Of Lancaster and Bell.

                      Lay by your books:
                      Let anxious looks
                  Give place to mirth and smiles.
              Come, come, my lads, put up your _slates_,
                  And run and fetch your _tiles_!

                      Now off they go,
                      Dick, Tom, and Joe,
                  Just like a pack of hounds;
              With vicar, crier, and beadle too,
                  To beat the parish bounds.

                      Away, away,
                      By bank and brae,
                  By footway and by highway:
              Each lane a Lad-lane now becomes,
                  And ev'ry way a Boy-way.

                      At ev'ry well
                      Their notes they swell,—
                  One's in the water thrown;
              Where he this moral lesson learns:—
                  "Always let _well_ alone."

                      And then at night,
                      Oh! what delight
                  To hear the pipes of Pan!
              And see the old connexion still
                  Kept up 'twixt _May_ and _Can_!

                      While maidens bound
                      The May-pole round,
                  With hearts and footsteps light:
              And near the _Pole_ a _booth_ is found,
                  A _Boothia Felix_ quite.

                      At least 'twas so
                      Some years ago,
                  Ere wisdom oped our eyes;
              And farthing folks, with penny mags,
                  Made people penny wise.

                      But, nowadays,
                      We've no such Mays:
                  Unpluck'd now blows the hawthorn.
              A May-pole I no more can find
                  Than Parry can the _northern_.

                      Our Johnny raws
                      Read Newton's laws,
                  All merriment unheeding;
              And, poring over the _Laws of Light_,
                  Imagine it light reading.

                      Yet still, sweet May,
                      To me thou'rt gay;
                  My pleasure and my pride!
              I love thy vi'lets, daffodils,
                  Daisies,—and pigeons—pied!

                      I love thy flow'rs,
                      And shady bow'rs;
                  Thy mountains and thy vales.
              I love thy _morning breezes_, and
                  I love thy _nightingales_!

                      Then, hip! huzza!
                      For Merry May!
                  We'll banish care and fear;
              And sing and dance from _day_ to _day_,
                  And laugh from _ear_ to _ear_!

[Illustration:

  JUNE.—Haymaking.
]

 ┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┐
 │                         JUNE.                          │      [1837.│
 ├──┬─────────────────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┤
 │  │Pattern of patience,—placid punter,—say,                          │
 │  │  Since early dawn, when thou didst take thy stand,               │
 │  │How many nibbles hast thou had? I pray,—                          │
 │  │  How many minnows hast thou brought to land?                     │
 │  │Not one!—yet comfort thee, Piscator bold;                         │
 │  │One thing, at least, you're sure to catch,—_a cold_!              │
 ├──┼─────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │D.│           =Great Events and Odd Matters.=           │_Prognosti- │
 │  │                                                     │fications._ │
 ├──┼─────────────────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │ 1│                                                     │    Crib    │
 │  │[Illustration]                                       │            │
 │ 2│                                                     │  squaring  │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │ 3│Transit of Venus. A ship-load of Vestals consigned to│  to Gully  │
 │  │  Van Diemen's land.                                 │            │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │ 4│                                                     │  ☍ □ ♂ ☉   │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │ 5│                                                     │ had a more │
 │  │[Illustration]                                       │            │
 │ 6│                                                     │  sinster   │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │ 7│                                                     │aspect than │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │ 8│Sun rises 3 h. 48 m.                                 │  Mercury   │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │ 9│               I wish _my_ Son would rise as soon,   │squaring to │
 │  │               To breathe the balmy air of June,—    │            │
 │10│                           The lazy dog!             │   Mars?    │
 │  │               Not snoring half his hours away,      │            │
 │11│               Lie like a torpid lump of clay,       │   ♎ ♃ ☿    │
 │  │                           Or old King Log.          │            │
 │12│               To rouse the sluggard from his nest,  │   Then,    │
 │  │               I've all things tried, and done my    │            │
 │  │                 best,—                              │            │
 │13│                           The prig!                 │as touching │
 │  │               I've stripped the clothes, in hopes   │            │
 │  │                 he'd mend;                          │            │
 │14│               I've given him strap,—a thick rope's  │    THE     │
 │  │                 end,—                               │            │
 │  │                           Cold pig!                 │            │
 │15│               In vain!—There lies the stupid clown, │  WEATHER   │
 │  │               As if the Night Mare held him down.   │            │
 │16│                                                     │    ♈ ☍     │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │17│                                                     │what better │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │18│Battle of Waterloo. _Lobsters_ in      [Illustration]│            │
 │  │  season.                                            │            │
 │  │                                                     │   index    │
 │19│                                                     │            │
 │  │                   [Illustration]                    │            │
 │20│                                                     │ need we of │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │21│Daniel Lambert died. Grand Diet of _Worms_.          │  ♂ ☉ ♉ ♋   │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │22│[Illustration] The grave-digger fled, all a-shiv'ring│    its     │
 │  │                 and shaking,                        │            │
 │  │                 For old Mother Earth she cried,     │            │
 │23│               With a terrible groan: "Why the deuce │evershifting│
 │  │                 are you making                      │            │
 │  │                 This precious big hole in my side!" │            │
 │24│                                                     │   ♊ ♒ △    │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │25│QUARTER DAY. Moon hides behind a cloud, for fear of  │  variable  │
 │  │  being shot.                                        │            │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │26│                                                     │ variations │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │27│                                                     │  ☿ □ ☊ ♍   │
 │  │                                                     │  than the  │
 │28│               Ha! my lad, you've caught a Tartar,   │countenance │
 │  │               Landlords never give _no quarter_.    │            │
 │29│                                                     │     of     │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │30│                                                     │  Spouse?   │
 └──┴─────────────────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘


                MISS AMELIA SMITH TO MISS JULIA SMYTHE.

"DEAREST JULIA,—Since that very unpleasant affair of pa's bankruptcy,
which made it so disagreeable to stop in town, I have really not had a
moment to spare. I take the first opportunity to tell you that our
farming goes on quite as well as might be expected; and I hope in a few
years we shall be able to hold up our heads again in our dear native
Tooley Street, and among our friends at dear No. 29½.

"Haymaking is just over, and such fun! Oh, how I wished for you, dear
Julia! you would so have liked it!—tedding, and windrowing, and
staddle-rowing, and quilling, and above all, being rolled about and
tumbled to bits by the young Browns, our handsome neighbours, who kindly
offered their assistance on this occasion. Young Edwin, who paid
particular attention to me, and squeezed my best transparent muslin
bonnet to a mummy, and tore my green silk frock all to rags, is one of
the nicest young men in these parts, and a great favourite with us all.
Pa and ma sat on a bank directing our proceedings out of a book pa's
got, which tells you all about farming, and agriculture, and everything.
I am head shepherdess, and go out every morning with my crook and
Spanish guitar, and sit all day long on a bank playing to the sheep and
lambs; young Edwin Brown generally coming and keeping me company with
his German flute, which makes it very pleasant. Besides having the care
of the flocks, I am put in charge of the eggs and poultry; but, though I
have every reason to believe that our hens lay regularly, I cannot for
the life of me find their nests: and I assure you I have searched over
and over again in all the trees about the premises. The only eggs I have
been able to get were some brought in by pa the other day, and which I
immediately set under a Bantam hen; but, unfortunately, they turned out
nothing but snakes. Also a second lot, picked up by brother John in one
of his walks, which unluckily proving to be pheasants, poor John has
been informed against by a neighbouring gamekeeper, and will have to pay
goodness knows what penalty, and has got the character of a poacher into
the bargain. What a fuss is here about poaching a few eggs!

"My geese also have been very disappointing, though we have had the tank
in front of the house carefully covered in with invisible wire for their
accommodation, where they are kept night and day, and have fresh water
given them every morning. Ducks likewise don't go on very swimmingly;
and as to our horned cattle, things have gone very crooked. Pa bought a
lot of cows, and thereby hangs a tale, for on bringing them up to milk
we couldn't get a drop; and on inquiry found that he ought to have
bought milch cows, and not feeding cows, which are only used for making
beef of. But he soon bought others, and we have now a very good dairy,
and Lucy is quite pat at making butter, but mamma is rather green at
making cheese.

"Brother John attends the markets—not that we have anything to sell—but
it is considered regular; and indeed he makes a regular thing of it by
getting tipsy every market day. Emily, who, you know, was always very
fond of birds, bought a lot of pigeons, and a tame hawk, and a jackdaw;
but, unfortunately, the hawk got one day into the dovecot, and killed
every one of the pigeons; and the jackdaw has stolen all our silver
forks and spoons. Brother John purchased a lot more pigeons at the
market, which flew away the next morning; and pa, in his rage, wrung the
jackdaw's neck, so that we are safe to see no more of our forks and
spoons.

"Ma undertook to manage the bees, and has had a glass hive fixed at her
bed-room window. The first night she was very unlucky; for, getting up
in the dark to open the window, she forgot the bees, and smashed one of
the hives, whereupon the little savages flew at her and almost stung her
to death; and pa, who heard her cries and jumped out of bed to her
assistance, got as roughly handled as ma. Only fancy, Julia dear, being
in nothing but your chemise, and two hundred thousand bees stinging at
you like mad! not pleasant, is it?

"Our pig-sties, I am sorry to say, are quite empty, the pigs having
strayed and got into the parish pound (unknown to us, of course), where
they were at last sold to pay their expenses. Susan, however, has been
very successful in rearing a litter of Guinea pigs, and Emily has got a
most delightful lot of little peacocks. Also John, who has bought a
hunter and means to follow the hounds, has had wonderful luck with his
foxes, for whose accommodation he has planted two of our largest fields
full of gorse bushes. A singular thing occurred the other day with
regard to one of these creatures: he was seen retreating to the gorse
covert, closely pursued by one of the turkeys; and, more singular still,
the turkey has never since been heard of, and it is generally supposed
that it followed the fox into one of its holes and got suffocated.
Several of the chickens have also disappeared in a very mysterious way,
and we can only account for it in the same manner.

"Our health is capital—except ma, who has got the lumbago by sitting
without her shawl in the hay-field—and pa, who is laid up with a cold
and sore throat from standing in the draught of a winnowing machine—and
Emily, who has got a face as big as two with running to fetch the young
ducks out of the rain—and Abraham, who has almost cut his hand off with
pruning the damson trees—and John, who, I am afraid, has lamed himself
for life in trying to jump his horse over a five-barred gate with spikes
on it—and your humble servant, who has put out one of her wrists, and
sprained one of her ancles, and fractured one of her ribs in climbing up
a tree after a hen's nest—or rather, a magpie's. My wrist is so bad at
this moment that you must excuse my abruptly signing myself,

                              "Dearest Julia, your most affectionate
                                                                "AMELIA.

"P.S. Wrist or no wrist, I must tell you of the perfidy of that villain,
Edwin Brown. Ma has just been in to say that he has run away with his
father's dairymaid. A perjured wretch! and a dairymaid too! I have
for-sworn love for ever, and made over my sheep to Emily. Oh, Julia!

"P.S. I open this sheet to tell you of the shocking fire that happened
here last night. We might have all been burnt to death in our beds. The
barns, stables, and other out-buildings are reduced to cinders; and all
owing to William's fine rick of hay, which it seems was put up too
green, and took fire of its own accord. Very odd—pa's book never said a
word about it. We are all very miserable.

                                   "Your doubly afflicted
                                                               "AMELIA."


                    OPERATION OF THE NEW POOR LAWS.

A man in the last stage of destitution came before the sitting
magistrate at Lambeth Street, and stated, that having by the operation
of the New Poor Laws been suddenly deprived of parish assistance, he was
reduced to such extremity, that, if not instantly relieved, he must be
driven to do a deed that his soul abhorred. The worthy magistrate
instantly ordered him five shillings from the poor-box, and after a
suitable admonition against giving way to despair, asked him what
dreadful deed he would have been impelled to but for this seasonable
relief? "To work!" said the man, with a deep sigh, as he left the
office.

 ┌──────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬──────────────┐
 │                        JULY.                         │[Illustration]│
 ├──┬───────────────────────────────────────────────────┼──────────────┤
 │  │Two potent elements combine                        │              │
 │  │  To rule the month together,                      │              │
 │  │St. Swithin gives us showers of rain,              │              │
 │  │  The mad dogs, _biting_ weather.                  │              │
 │  │And if you get a dubious gripe                     │              │
 │  │  From Pincher, Snap, or Toby,                     │              │
 │  │The good saint's bucket comes right                │              │
 │  │  To test the Hydro-phoby.                         │              │
 ├──┼───────────────────────────────────────────────────┼──────────────┤
 │D.│          =Great Events and Odd Matters.=          │ _Prognosti-  │
 │  │                                                   │ fications._  │
 ├──┼───────────────────────────────────────────────────┼──────────────┤
 │ 1│                                                   │              │
 │  │                                                   │   Doth not   │
 │ 2│                                                   │              │
 │  │                                                   │     many     │
 │ 3│Dog Days _beg_.                                    │              │
 │  │                                                   │  a Benedick  │
 │ 4│[Illustration]   "Old Mother Hubbard               │              │
 │  │                                                   │    ♋ ☍ ♐     │
 │ 5│                   Went to the cupboard,           │              │
 │  │                                                   │     know     │
 │ 6│                     To get her poor dog a bone."  │              │
 │  │                                                   │  right well  │
 │ 7│                                                   │              │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │ 8│                                                   │   ♏ ♈ ♎ ♉    │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │ 9│              HOW TO MAKE A MAD DOG.               │    that a    │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │10│               _By a Knowing Hand._                │    cloudy    │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │11│Tie a dog that is little, and one that is large,   │     brow     │
 │  │To a truck or a barrow as big as a barge;          │              │
 │12│Their mouths girded tight with a rugged old cord   │    ♄ ⚹ ♒     │
 │  │  (or                                              │              │
 │  │They'll put out their tongues) by the magistrate's │              │
 │  │  order;                                           │              │
 │13│So you save 'em the trouble of feeding, I think,   │              │
 │  │Or the loss of your time by their stopping to      │    on the    │
 │  │  drink.                                           │              │
 │14│Lend 'em out, 'tis a neighbourly duty, of course,  │              │
 │  │And mind they've a load that would stagger a horse.│  aspect of   │
 │15│If you've nothing to draw, why, yourselves let 'em │              │
 │  │  carry (sons                                      │              │
 │  │Of she dogs!), or else they'll be drawing          │   his dear   │
 │  │  compari-sons.                                    │              │
 │16│With a stick or a kick make 'em gallop away,       │              │
 │  │And smoke through the streets in a piping-hot day, │              │
 │17│Where Mac Adam is spreading his pebbles about,     │     ☌ ♈      │
 │  │And they'll pick up their feet all the quicker, no │              │
 │  │  doubt;                                           │              │
 │18│More than all, don't allow them their noses to     │  betokeneth  │
 │  │  wet;—it                                          │              │
 │  │Will keep 'em alert by the "wish they may get it." │              │
 │19│All pleasures must end:—when they drop head and    │    _cool_    │
 │  │  tail,                                            │              │
 │  │With their muzzles all froth, like a tankard of    │              │
 │  │  ale,                                             │              │
 │20│Turn 'em loose in the road with a whoop and a      │  _breezes_,  │
 │  │  hollo,                                           │              │
 │  │And get all the thieves and the blackguards to     │              │
 │  │  follow.                                          │              │
 │21│It's a precious good lark for the neighbours,      │   ☍ ♈ ♀ ⚹    │
 │  │  you'll find,                                     │              │
 │  │With the mad dogs before and the sad dogs behind,  │              │
 │22│And you'll ne'er be molested, rely on my word,     │   probably   │
 │  │If you keep 'em from biting a Bishop or Lord.      │              │
 │23│                                                   │ followed by  │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │24│                                                   │  _a storm_,  │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │25│                                                   │              │
 │  │                                                   │    ♋ ☊ ♅     │
 │26│                                                   │              │
 │  │                                                   │_accompanied_ │
 │27│                                                   │              │
 │  │                                                   │    _with_    │
 │28│                                                   │              │
 │  │                                                   │  _showers_?  │
 │29│                                                   │              │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │30│                                                   │   ♊ ♄ ☌ ☽    │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │31│Second week of St. Swithin. Ladies sigh for "a     │  And that.   │
 │  │  little sun."                                     │              │
 └──┴───────────────────────────────────────────────────┴──────────────┘

[Illustration:

  JULY.—Fancy Fair.
]


                             FANCY-FAIRING.
                             "ONLY FANCY!"

            I saw her at the Fancy Fair:
              'Twas there my heart she won
            Within the sweet, romantic grounds
              Of Mr. Jenkinson.

            Her ma-in-law stood by her side,
              Also her aunt Griselda;
            Who all the younger brothers served,
              While "Missy" served the elder.

            To cure Diseases of the Ear,
              They say they've oped the mart:
            But _I_ think it's to propagate
              Diseases of the heart.

            I thought I'd buy a pair of gloves,
              To get a bit of talk;
            Her lily hands presented them,
              A pair as white as chalk.

            Then, feeling for the cash to pay,
              "Oh law," says I, "I'm trick'd!"—
            "Dear! what's the matter, Sir?" said she;
              Said I, "My pocket's pick'd!

            But never mind—I'll just step home,
              Some other cash to find."—
            "I reckon so!" cried some pert wag
              Among the crowd behind.

            To show I meant to come again,
              Said I, "Miss, may I beg
            My umbrella and cloak to hang
              Two minutes on this peg?"

            "Oh yes!" said she; and off I flew
              To fetch my pocket-book;
            Then hasten'd back, and out of it
              A five-pound note I took.

            "Pray give me change, dear Miss," said I;
              "For I no more can find."—
            "I vishes you may get it, Sir!"
              Cried out the voice behind.

            The people laughed: the lady smiled
              (I thought it rather strange);
            Then popp'd my note into a box,
              And said, "We never change!"

            I soon found what an ass I'd been
              To trust in pretty features.
            Thinks I,—well, this is the last time
              I'll deal with these dear creatures.

            Since then I've learn'd that tricks like these
              Are thought quite meritorious,
            And that for boning five-pound notes
              These dames are quite note-orious.

            Says I, "Dear Miss, such barefaced cheats
              Are really past a joke;
            So give me my umbrella, ma'am—
              And give me, ma'am, my cloak.

            "Not that I care—of course, I don't—
              For losing so much gold!"—
            "Your cloak and your umbrella, Sir!
              Oh la! they've both been sold!"

            At that I lost my patience quite;
              My rage I couldn't smother.
            "Good heav'ns!" I cried, "the last dear gifts
              Of a lamented mother!"

            I rav'd and stamp'd, and _think_ I swore.
              Cried Miss, "For heaven's sake, cease!"
            And then she gave me—heartless girl!—
              In charge of the police.

            To prison soon they haul'd me off,
              With pushes, shoves, and jolts;
            And soon I found Dame Justice' bars
              Were worse than Cupid's bolts.

            Now all who read my sad mishaps,
              Of nymphs like these beware!
            For oh! there's many a _real cheat_
              Found at a _fancy fair_.

            And if you want your money's worth,
              With honest traders barter;
            For if to marts like these you go,
              You'll surely be a martyr.

[Illustration:

  AUGUST.—Regatta.
]

 ┌──┬──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
 │  │[Illustration]                       AUGUST.                      │
 ├──┴──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
 │                  The postboys clatter to the door,                  │
 │                    Whips cracking and spurs pricking;               │
 │                  The hero who went up at four                       │
 │                    Came down at five, alive and kicking.            │
 │                  Below is a special communication                   │
 │                  From a private source, to inform the nation.       │
 ├──┬────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬─────────────┤
 │D.│          =Great Events and Odd Matters.=           │ _Prognosti- │
 │  │                                                    │ fications._ │
 ├──┼────────────────────────────────────────────────────┼─────────────┤
 │ 1│Charles X. abdic. 1830. New issue of Sovereigns.    │             │
 │  │                                                    │ if he would │
 │ 2│                                                    │             │
 │  │                                                    │ _look for_  │
 │ 3│                THE BALLOON ASCENT.                 │             │
 │  │                                                    │ _sunshine_, │
 │ 4│ "_Only threepence more, and up goes the Donkey._"  │             │
 │  │                                                    │    ♅ ♀ ♌    │
 │ 5│Dear Captain! let me thank my lucky fate            │             │
 │  │That brings me safe and sound through every strait, │  he must,   │
 │ 6│And when my rebel subjects tipp'd me over,          │             │
 │  │Placed between them and me the Straits of Dover:    │ungrudgingly │
 │ 7│On _terra firma_ I've at length alighted,           │             │
 │  │More dead than living, tho' less hurt than frighted,│     and     │
 │ 8│And strike me ugly—that I swear quite plain,        │             │
 │  │I'll never venture in the air again.                │ obediently, │
 │ 9│To let me go the varlets scarce were willing        │             │
 │  │As long as they could show me for a shilling:—      │             │
 │10│At last however all was right and handy,            │    ♃ ♂ ⊕    │
 │  │By Madame's wondrous skill and—drops of brandy;     │             │
 │11│And while my cheeks with glowing rouge were spread, │  acquiesce  │
 │  │'Tis false to say the white usurp'd the red.        │             │
 │12│Then as we mounted in the clear blue sky,           │   in and    │
 │  │The Queen's own private Aëronaute and I,            │             │
 │13│A field of handkerchiefs waved full in view,        │  accede to  │
 │  │Dirty and clean, silk, cotton, black and blue;      │             │
 │14│And while the huge machine majestic rose,           │             │
 │  │I gazed on many an elevated nose,                   │     ♊ ♀     │
 │15│And heard, and wrote it down, with great surprise,  │             │
 │  │A man in spectacles exclaim "my eyes!"              │   all her   │
 │16│Just as we threw the sand-bags quickly o'er,        │             │
 │  │And rose so high that I could hear no more.         │   modest    │
 │17│So being fairly out of mortal ken,                  │             │
 │  │The fair one said, "We'll soon come down again."    │requirements?│
 │18│Too soon—for while I turn'd myself around,          │             │
 │  │Balloon and car came spinning to the ground:        │             │
 │19│The earth received my nob—too thick to split—       │    ♈ ☿ ♏    │
 │  │The lady fell on—what she thought most fit.         │             │
 │20│I gallop'd off as fast as steeds could fly;         │  when, and  │
 │  │To bed she posted quickly, there—_to lie_.          │             │
 │21│                                                    │ not before, │
 │  │                                                    │             │
 │22│                                                    │             │
 │  │                                                    │    ☉ ☽ ♑    │
 │23│                                                    │             │
 │  │                                                    │   he may    │
 │24│                                                    │             │
 │  │                                                    │ reasonably  │
 │25│                                                    │             │
 │  │                                                    │             │
 │26│Fête Champêtre. _Field-fare_ arrive.                │    ☊ ⚹ ♀    │
 │  │                                                    │             │
 │27│                                                    │  _expect_   │
 │  │                                                    │             │
 │28│                                                    │    _fair    │
 │  │                                                    │  weather_   │
 │  │                                                    │             │
 │29│                                                    │  _to the_   │
 │  │                                                    │             │
 │30│                                                    │_end of the_ │
 │  │                                                    │             │
 │31│Jews banished England, 1290. "New Way to Pay Old    │  _month_.   │
 │  │  Debts."                                           │             │
 └──┴────────────────────────────────────────────────────┴─────────────┘


                             A TOUGH YARN.

          Guy Davit was a sailor bold,
            As ever hated France;
          And tho' he never cared for gold,
            He stuck to the main chance.

          Susanna Sly was what they call
            A servant of all work:
          Made beds, baked pies, cleaned shoes, hemmed shirts
            Blacked grates, and pickled pork.

          Young Guy was born upon the Thames,
            Off the Adelphi, Strand;
          And so the water—do you see?—
            Became his father-land.

          'Twas there he served his time; and none
            On "wessel," boat, or raft,
          More honest was: altho' 'twas known
            He loved a little _craft_.

          He soon had weathered twenty-one;
            Youth's cable then let slip,
          He stepped out of his master's _boat_,
            And his apprentice-_ship_.

          Next year, the First of August come,
            He trimmed his little boat,
          And plied so well his oars, he won
            Old Dogget's badge and coat.

          'Twas then Susanna saw him first,
            And first felt Cupid's dart.
          The young toxophilite had hit
            The bull's-eye of her heart.

          A thousand hearts besides her own
            With am'rous hopes beat higher,
          It seemed as if Love, with his link,
            Had set the Thames on fire.

          So Sue set up her best mob cap
            At Guy, to win his heart,
          For some folks Love makes slatternly,
            And some folks he makes _smart_.

          But Guy was a conservative,
            (The hottest of the nation,)
          And so he wasn't going to yield
            To any _mob's_ dictation.

          Then Sue a tender letter wrote:
            Guy didn't seem to heed it,
          And not one word of answer sent;
            For why?—he couldn't read it.

          Then Susan offered him her hand:
            Love made her accents falter,
          "Thankee," says he; "but I prefers
            A _cable_ to a _altar_."

          For Guy of foreign shores had heard,
            And wonders there that be;
          He scarce could think such stories true,
            So he went out to _sea_.

          Poor Susan saw her sailor start
            On board a ship of war;
          Which raised her love to such a _pitch_,
            She thought she'd be a _tar_.

          So, casting off her female gear,
            She joined the merry crew;
          And round the world, thro' storm and strife
            Did Sue her love pursue.

          And she and Guy became sworn friends,
            No hint of love e'er dropping,
          Till, one day, Guy confessed he liked
            A pretty maid at Wapping.

          Then Susan home like lightning flew,
            And so well played her part,
          In likeness of a captain bold,
            She won that fair maid's heart.

          And, following her advantage up
            (So dazzling is ambition!)
          Our captain soon prevailed on her
            To _altar_ her condition.

          The wedding o'er, away she went,
            To Guy the tidings carried,
          And gave to him the newspaper
            That told his love was married.

          Then Guy a loaded pistol took:
            "I'll kill myself!" he cried;
          "Because I will not _side_ with _Sue_,
            I'll be a _suicide_."

          When Susan heard him say these words,
            She at _her_ brains let fly:
          And down, a corse, he sank, by Jove;
            And down she sank—by Guy!

 ┌───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬─────────────┐
 │                      SEPTEMBER.                       │       [1837.│
 ├──┬────────────────────────────────────────────────────┴─────────────┤
 │  │Soft, simple innocent!—how well you show                          │
 │  │  The gentle pastimes of your Cockney mates;                      │
 │  │From him, who sparrows shoots with penny bow,                     │
 │  │  To him who, armed with Manton, braves the fates!                │
 │  │Alack! it grieves me that this shoeless boy                       │
 │  │Should bootless follow the delusive joy;                          │
 │  │For e'en the salt of _attic_ wit doth fail                        │
 │  │To catch a goose:—'and thereby hangs a tale.'                     │
 ├──┼────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬─────────────┤
 │D.│          =Great Events and Odd Matters.=           │ _Prognosti- │
 │  │                                                    │ fications._ │
 ├──┼────────────────────────────────────────────────────┼─────────────┤
 │  │Passenger-shooting begins. Old ladies and young     │             │
 │ 1│  children deemed fair game by cab and omnibus      │             │
 │  │  drivers.                                          │             │
 │  │                                                    │  Further-   │
 │ 2│New _Style_. Eleven days _stepped_ over.            │    more,    │
 │  │                                                    │             │
 │ 3│                                                    │   △ ☿ ♍ ♅   │
 │  │                                      [Illustration]│             │
 │ 4│_Bartlemy Fair._ "Fair is foul, and foul is fair,"  │    let a    │
 │  │                 Dabble thro' the mud "and filthy   │             │
 │  │  air."                                             │             │
 │ 5│                                                    │  needy man  │
 │  │                                                    │             │
 │ 6│The sun of Bartlemy is well-nigh set, and his       │     ☉ ♊     │
 │  │latest rays are dull as the Dutch metal that gilds  │             │
 │ 7│his gingerbread kings. The last fair was a foul     │  essay to   │
 │  │concern--the lions roared in a saw-dust solitude    │             │
 │ 8│and the monkeys chatter'd to empty boxes.--"Just    │  open the   │
 │  │going to begin" was a never-ending cry, because     │             │
 │ 9│the sights waited all day for want of see-ers--Mr.  │  heart or   │
 │  │Merryman was sad, for people would not down with    │             │
 │10│the dumps; and though he cried "Walk up! only       │    draw     │
 │  │twopence," he failed to "take his change out of     │             │
 │11│that." In vain King Richard offer'd his kingdom     │     the     │
 │  │for a horse; there were only a few asses within     │purse-strings│
 │12│ear-ing. The sausages met with no stuffers, and     │             │
 │  │the dog-meat pies remained unbitten, though the     │   ♌ ♒ ♀ ♓   │
 │13│chimney- sweeps looked rabid at 'em. The hot        │             │
 │  │spiced nuts met with a cold reception; the baked    │    of a     │
 │14│plum pudding was at no price current; and the       │             │
 │  │ginger beer, though well up, would not go down.     │fair-weather │
 │15│The pyramids of apples stood as unmoved as those    │             │
 │  │of Egypt; but the nuts alone looked happy, for      │   friend,   │
 │16│the people gave them "none of their jaw." The       │             │
 │  │temperance societies have turned the table to a     │    ☉ ☿ ♂    │
 │17│T;--Men who have left off gin do not support Mr.    │             │
 │  │Gingell; and water-drinkers have no affection       │  and shall  │
 │18│for fire-eaters. As to the gin temples, they        │             │
 │  │found their day pretty well over, so they blazed    │   he not    │
 │19│at night, but their illuminated dials have made     │             │
 │  │the world suspect "what's o'clock." Even the        │  forthwith  │
 │20│pickpockets failed of their harvest: for as the     │             │
 │  │people abandoned the knaves in spirit, they were    │ experience  │
 │21│able to guard against the rogues in grain.          │             │
 │  │                                                    │     ☉ ♂     │
 │22│                                                    │             │
 │  │                                                    │_a cool and_ │
 │23│                                                    │             │
 │  │                                                    │_frosty air_,│
 │24│HARE HUNTING.                                       │             │
 │  │                                                    │   ☊ ♏ ♅ ♍   │
 │25│                                                    │             │
 │  │                                                    │ sufficient  │
 │26│                                                    │             │
 │  │                                                    │    ♃ ♄ ♊    │
 │27│                                                    │             │
 │  │                                                    │  to blight  │
 │28│                                                    │             │
 │  │                                                    │   all the   │
 │29│QUARTER DAY.                                        │             │
 │  │                                                    │  blossoms   │
 │30│The landlord seizes for his rent, but can't be      │  of hope?   │
 │  │  called a cheat,                                   │             │
 │  │For though he takes your stools and chairs, he      │             │
 │  │  leaves you a _re-seat_.                           │             │
 └──┴────────────────────────────────────────────────────┴─────────────┘

[Illustration:

  SEPTEMBER.—Cockney Sportsmen.
]


                        THE FIRST OF SEPTEMBER.
                              A FRAGMENT.

"And that's why I don't like a flinty soil," said the farmer.

"Talking of flints," said the gentleman in the India-rubber coat, white
cords, and top-boots, "we'd a werry honcommon day's sport shooting, the
First of September ultimo: vich there vos me and Figgins, and Wiggins,
and Higgins, and young Apollo Belvidere Hicks, the poet, vot writes
werses in _Bell's Life_, and sends wery anonymous letters to the _Penny
Magazine_, and sings a werry good song now and then at the Adelphi
Shades—a werry slap-up party, I assure you. I writ an account of it at
the time, vich I sent to _Bell's Life_; but owing to a werry great press
of matter of tempory hinterest, vosn't hable to be printed. I've got the
journal in my pocket, and if you like, I'll read it."

"By all means," said a chorus of voices. Whereupon the gentleman in the
India-rubber coat, white cords, and top-boots, _douted_ his half-smoked
cigar, stowed it away in his silver-mounted shagreen case, and pulling
out an amateur-built note-book, made of half-a-dozen sheets of
blue-lined paper, evidently purloined from the ledger, read as follows:

         "JOURNAL OF PROCEEDINGS ON THE FIRST OF SEPTEMBER ULT.

                  "_Edited by Jonathan Duggins, Esq._

"Up at six.—Told Mrs. D. I'd got wery pressing business at Woolwich, and
off to Old Fish Street, where a werry sporting breakfast, consisting of
jugged hare, partridge pie, tally-ho sauce, gunpowder tea, and-cætera,
vos laid out in Figgins's warehouse; as he didn't choose Mrs. F. and his
young hinfant family to know he vos a-goin to hexpose himself vith
fire-harms.— After a good blow-out, sallied forth vith our dogs and
guns, namely Mrs. Wiggins's French poodle, Miss Selina Higgins's real
Blenheim spaniel, young Hicks's ditto, Mrs. Figgins's pet bull-dog, and
my little thorough-bred tarrier; all vich had been smuggled to Figgins's
warehouse the night before, to perwent domestic disagreeables.—Got into
a Paddington bus at the Bank.—Row with Tiger, who hobjected to take the
dogs, unless paid hextra.—Hicks said we'd a rights to take 'em, and
quoted the hact.—Tiger said the hact only allowed parcels carried on the
lap.—Accordingly tied up the dogs in our pocket-handkerchiefs, and
carried them and the guns on our knees.—Got down at Paddington; and,
after glasses round, valked on till ve got into the fields, to a place
vich Higgins had baited vith corn and penny rolls every day for a month
past. Found a covey of birds feeding. Dogs wery eager, and barked
beautiful. Birds got up, and turned out to be pigeons. Debate as to
vether pigeons vos game or not. Hicks said they vos made game on by the
new hact. Fired accordingly, and half killed two or three, vich half
fell to the ground; but suddenly got up again and flew off. Reloaded,
and pigeons came round again. Let fly a second time, and tumbled two or
three more over, but didn't bag any. Tired at last, and turned in to the
_Dog and Partridge_ to get a snack. Landlord laughed, and asked how ve
vos hoff for tumblers. Didn't understand him, but got some waluable
hinformation about loading our guns; vich he strongly recommended mixing
the powder and shot well up together before putting into the barrel; and
showed Figgins how to charge his percussion; vich, being Figgins's first
attempt under the new system, he had made the mistake of putting a
charge of copper caps into the barrel instead of sticking von of 'em
atop of the touch-hole.—Left the _Dog and Partridge_, and took a
north-easterly direction, so as to have the adwantage of the vind on our
backs. Dogs getting wery riotous, and refusing to answer to Figgins's
vhistle, vich had unfortunately got a pea in it.—Getting over an edge
into a field, Hicks's gun haccidentally hexploded, and shot Wiggins
behind; and my gun going off hunexpectedly at the same moment, singed
avay von of my viskers and blinded von of my heyes.—Carried Wiggins back
to the inn: dressed his wound, and rubbed my heye with cherry brandy and
my visker vith bear's grease.—Sent poor W. home by a short stage, and
resumed our sport.—Heard some pheasants crowing by the side of a
plantation. Resolved to stop their cockadoodledooing, so set off at a
jog-trot. Passing thro' a field of bone manure, the dogs unfortunately
set to work upon the bones, and we couldn't get 'em to go a step further
at no price. Got vithin gun-shot of two of the birds, vich Higgins said
they vos two game cocks: but Hicks, who had often been to Vestminster
Pit, said no sitch thing; as game cocks had got short square tails, and
smooth necks, and long military spurs; and these had got long curly
tails, and necks all over hair, and scarce any spurs at all. Shot at 'em
as pheasants, and believe we killed 'em both; but, hearing some orrid
screams come out of the plantation immediately hafter, ve all took to
our 'eels and ran avay vithout stopping to pick either of 'em up.—After
running about two miles, Hicks called out to stop, as he had hobserved a
covey of wild ducks feeding on a pond by the road side. Got behind a
haystack and shot at the ducks, vich svam avay hunder the trees. Figgins
wolunteered to scramble down the bank, and hook out the dead uns vith
the but-hend of his gun. Unfortunately bank failed, and poor F. tumbled
up to his neck in the pit. Made a rope of our pocket hankerchiefs, got
it round his neck, and dragged him to the _Dog and Doublet_, vere ve had
him put to bed, and dried. Werry sleepy with the hair and hexercise, so
after dinner took a nap a-piece.—Woke by the landlord coming in to know
if ve vos the gentlemen as had shot the hunfortunate nurse-maid and
child in Mr. Smithville's plantation. Swore ve knew nothing about it,
and vile the landlord vas gone to deliver our message, got out of the
back vindow, and ran avay across the fields. At the end of a mile, came
suddenly upon a strange sort of bird, vich Hicks declared to be the
cock-of-the-woods. Sneaked behind him and killed him. Turned out to be a
peacock. Took to our heels again, as ve saw the lord of the manor and
two of his servants vith bludgeons coming down the gravel valk towards
us. Found it getting late, so agreed to shoot our vay home. Didn't know
vere ve vos, but kept going on.—At last got to a sort of plantation,
vere ve saw a great many birds perching about. Gave 'em a broadside, and
brought down several. Loaded again, and killed another brace. Thought ve
should make a good day's vork of it at last, and was preparing to charge
again, ven two of the new police came and took us up in the name of the
Zolorogical Society, in whose gardens it seems ve had been shooting.
Handed off to the Public Hoffice, and werry heavily fined, and werry
sewerely reprimanded by the sitting magistrate.—Coming away, met by the
landlord of the _Dog and Doublet_, who charged us with running off
without paying our shot; and Mr. Smithville, who accused us of
man-slaughtering his nurse-maid and child; and, their wounds not having
been declared immortal, ve vos sent to spend the night in prison—and
thus ended my last First of September."

[Illustration:

  OCTOBER.—Brewing.
]

 ┌─────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
 │  [Illustration]                       OCTOBER.                      │
 ├──┬──────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
 │  │              Hail! honest Toby, who all grumbling hates,         │
 │  │              Who quaffs his ale, and cheerful pays his rates;    │
 │  │              Whose faith is fixed and firm,—in stout October,—   │
 │  │              Who scorns dissent,—except, from being sober;       │
 │  │              Who swears the cause is best upheld by drinking,    │
 │  │              Since he who takes to water, takes to thinking;     │
 │  │              Who designates small beer a public scandal,         │
 │  │              And knows no heresy but using the pump handle.      │
 ├──┼─────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
 │D.│           =Great Events and Odd Matters.=           │_Prognosti- │
 │  │                                                     │fications._ │
 ├──┼─────────────────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │ 1│                      DIALOGUE.                      │    Now     │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │ 2│_Customer_: What can I have, waiter?—_Waiter_: What  │   lest,    │
 │  │  would you like, Sir?                               │            │
 │  │_C._ Can you give me a chop, or a steak?—_W._ No,    │            │
 │  │  Sir.                                               │            │
 │ 3│_C._ Any cold meat?—_W._ No.                         │peradventure│
 │  │_C._ Crust of bread and cheese?—_W._ No.             │            │
 │ 4│_C._ Why, you've nothing at all in the house, then,  │  ♉ ☍ ♉ ♀   │
 │  │  it seems?—_W._ Oh! yes we have.                    │            │
 │  │_C._ What?—_W._ AN EXECUTION!                        │            │
 │ 5│                                                     │            │
 │  │                                                     │ it should  │
 │ 6│                                                     │            │
 │  │                                                     │   hereby   │
 │ 7│                                                     │            │
 │  │                                                     │seem to the │
 │ 8│                                                     │            │
 │  │                                                     │undiscerning│
 │ 9│A mob of _Johnnies_ lay rough hands on the Spinning  │            │
 │  │  _Jennies_, 1779.                                   │            │
 │  │                                                     │ multitude, │
 │10│_Spenser_ died, succeeded by _Coats_. (Query,        │            │
 │  │  _Romeo_?)                                          │            │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │11│                                                     │   ♀ ♃ ⊕    │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │12│Day _breaks_. ——Poor fellow! when, and where?        │that I have │
 │  │              I pity him, I do declare;              │            │
 │13│              Unlike the surly wight, who said,      │ deserted,  │
 │  │              When rous'd up from his downy bed,     │            │
 │14│              "What is't to me, if broke or no?      │  ♒ ☿ ♊ ♎   │
 │  │              He owes _me_ nothing." (_Vide_ JOE.)   │            │
 │15│              And Mrs. Day,—his loving mate,—        │    the     │
 │  │              'Twill break her heart, as sure as     │            │
 │  │                fate.                                │            │
 │16│              Oh, no! she treats it very _light_;—   │ Celestial  │
 │  │              She's run away with Mr. Night.         │            │
 │17│              Should Mrs. Day, though, meet her      │  Science,  │
 │  │                _sun_,                               │            │
 │  │              Then Mr. Night will be undone;         │            │
 │18│              For by some magic,—strange to say,—    │    ☿ ♑     │
 │  │              This _sun_ will turn _Night_ into      │            │
 │  │                _Day._                               │            │
 │19│                                                     │ and proved │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │20│                                                     │an unworthy │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │21│                                                     │ successor  │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │22│                                                     │  ♎ ♐ ☌ ♀   │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │23│                                                     │   of the   │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │24│                                                     │defunct and │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │25│ST. CRISPIN. All _Soles_ Day. _Cobblers'_ Holiday. No│  doughty   │
 │  │  business done in Downing Street.                   │            │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │26│                                                     │   MOORE,   │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │27│                                                     │  ☊ ♓ ♑ ♌   │
 │  │                                                     │            │
 │28│                   [Illustration]                    │ I do here  │
 │  │                                                     │  present   │
 │29│                                                     │            │
 │  │                                                     │    one     │
 │30│                                                     │            │
 │  │                                                     │ important  │
 │31│Brewing ends. _Malt_-brun. Sir Matthew _Hale_.       │prediction, │
 └──┴─────────────────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘


                              ODE TO BEER.

                      Hail, Beer!
           In all thy forms of Porter, Stingo, Stout,
           Swipes, Double-X, Ale, Heavy, Out-and-out,
                      Most dear.
      Hail! thou that mak'st man's heart as big as Jove's!
                Of Ceres' gifts the best!
                That furnishest
      A cure for all our griefs: a barm for all our—loaves!
      Oh! Sir John Barleycorn, thou glorious Knight of Malt-a
                May thy fame never alter!
          Great Britain's Bacchus! pardon all our failings:
          And with thy ale ease all our ailings!
      I've emptied many a barrel in my time: and may be
                Shall empty many more
                    Before
                O'er Styx I sail:
          Ev'n when an infant I was fond of Ale:
                A sort of Ale-y Baby,
          And still I love it, spite the gibes and jokes
                Of _wine_ing folks.
          For Stout I've stoutly fought for many a year;
          For Ale I'll fight till I'm laid on my _bier_.


          October! oh, intoxicating name! no drink
      That e'er was made on earth can match with thee!
          Of best French Brandy in the Palais Royal
                I've emptied many a phial;
                    And think
              That Double-X beats O-D-V.
                On thy banks, Rhine,
                I've drunk such Wine
              As Bacchus' self might well unsober:
          But oh, Johannisberg! thy beams are shorn
                By our John Barleycorn;
                And Hock is not Hock-tober!
          As for the rest, Cape, Claret, Calcavella,
          They are but "leather and prunello,"
                Stale, flat, and musty.
                By thy side, Ale!
              Imperial Tokay
              Itself gives way;
                Sherry turns pale,
                And Port grows crusty.
      Rum, Whiskey, Hollands, seem so much sour crout:
            And Hodges' Mountain Dew turns out
                  A mere Hodge-
                      Podge.
                Of _bishops_ ev'n, god wot!
              I don't much like the flavour:
          Politically speaking, (but then, politics are not
                      My trade,)
              Exception should be made
            In Doctor _Malt-by's_ favour.
          _In vino veritas_, they say: but that's a fable—
                A most egregious blunder.
          I've been at many a wine-bibbing, ere now:
                      And vow,
          For one that told the truth _across_ the table,
              I've seen a dozen _lying_ under.
      Besides, as old Sam Johnson said once, I've no patience
          With men who never tell the sober truth
      But when they're drunk: and a'n't to be believed, forsooth,
                Except in their lie-bations.
          Oh! do not think—you who these praises hear—
          Don't think my muse be-mused with Beer!
          Nor that, in speaking thus my pleasure,
                I go beyond beer measure.
          Would I had lived in days of good Queen Bet,
          And her brave _déjeûners à la fourchette_!
                No days were e'er like hers,
          At whose gay board were ever seen to join
                Those two surpassing Sirs,
                Sir John, and famed Sir-loin.

                    But stay!
                It's time to end this lay;
          Tho' I could go on rhyming for a year
                (And think it sport
                In praise of Beer);
          But many folks, I know, like _something short_.


                        SO—OH!—LOGICAL SOCIETY.

At the Annual Meeting of the So-oh!-logical Society, the Chairman, in an
able speech, which was highly satisfactory to himself and all present,
congratulated the members on the prosperous state of the concern. He
informed them that their coffers and their dens were yet undrained; that
they were still able to raise the wind, though they had very little
ventilation; that the shilling orders were on the increase, though the
animals were in a decline; and, admitting that some of them had galloped
off in a consumption, there was a consolation in the old adage, that
living asses were far better than dead lions,—a truth of which they must
all feel a full conviction.

He stated that 15,073 pennyworths of apples, 10,732 gingerbread cakes,
and 6,532 half-pints of nuts had been sold during the year by the old
lady who sits at the bear-pit; that a Sunday school had been established
in the Gardens, under the superintendence of a committee of noblemen,
for the purpose of instructing the apes and monkeys in the art of
smoking cigars, and other usages of fashionable life; but that the
throngs of ladies who crowded round them during school-hours had greatly
retarded their improvement, by staring them out of countenance.

He thought it right to mention to the Meeting that the Council, in the
choice of the Society's servants, had borne in mind that mere experience
is but empiricism, and they had discovered that whoever could wash a
coach-wheel could water a rhinoceros; that an over-grown _Tiger_ was a
proper person to feed a Lion, and the offsprings of their _darlings_
were doubtless best qualified to fodder their _deers_. He congratulated
the Meeting, that while common show-men were confined by their
capabilities to merely exhibiting their animals alive, this collection
presented exclusively the additional advantage of a speedy opportunity
of dissection. He concluded by an announcement, for which he trusted
they would ever prove grateful, that his Majesty had granted to the
Society permission to appear at Court with long ears and a tail, and to
distinguish themselves by the appendage of any letters not exceeding
three to their names, but ending with an S. At this intimation the
delighted _Ear_-ers trotted away to give orders to their _tail_-ers, and
to search their dictionaries. They all returned _suit_-ed before they
got far into the alphabet.

The President then read an interesting letter from a member detailing
new facts in the history of the domestic cat (_felis communis_). The
writer's housekeeper had been making her annual brewing of elder wine,
which was left in the barrel, unstopped, _secundum artem_, to ferment.
Hearing an extraordinary noise in the cellar, she ventured to peep
through the key-hole, and to her consternation beheld about twenty
strange cats, assembled, apparently on the invitation of the
Tortoise-shell of the family. They were engaged in springing in
succession on the barrel, plunging their tails through the bung-hole
into the delicious liquid till saturated, and then sucking them dry. The
old lady distinctly heard her pet grimalkin say to a grave tabby
gentleman, who seemed tasting, with an air of connoisseurship, "How!
How!" to which he replied, in sounds which seemed to her very like "More
brandy." The worthy dame fell down in a swoon, and was found by some of
the servants in a state of insensibility, with an empty brandy bottle in
her hand, and she had only sufficiently recovered to narrate the above
remarkable occurrence. The letter was ordered to be published in their
Annual Report, and many other _tails_ of cats formed subjects of
conversation during the evening.

A learned member offered a shrewd conjecture that the common shrew was
the connecting link between quadrupeds and a certain variety of
woman-kind, and that the universal chain might again be traced from man
to the feathered race, through the medium of the human thief, especially
when he was a-robbin!

The secretary informed the society that in consequence of the
discoveries of the British Association, the giraffes had been lately fed
on lettuce leaves, which had so far imparted to their necks the
properties of caoutchouc, that they now possessed the capability of
indefinite extension. At this period of the proceedings one of the
animals stretched his neck from his stable to the council room, and as
the president was proceeding to offer some consolation on the head of
the dead lion, by descanting on the spur in his tail, put his face into
the midst of the company, and, for the first time in his life, cried
out, "Bah!" which had the effect of breaking up the assembly.

 ┌──────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬──────────────┐
 │                      NOVEMBER.                       │[Illustration]│
 ├──┬───────────────────────────────────────────────────┼──────────────┤
 │  │The night comes on, when, braving civic law,       │              │
 │  │The little savage burns his man of straw;          │              │
 │  │Admires the hero as the crackers fly,              │              │
 │  │And _fires_, to emulate the glorious Guy.          │              │
 │  │With artless art he plans his victim's fall,       │              │
 │  │Some apple-woman dozing at her stall,              │              │
 │  │Who, waking, cries—half conscious of the fray—     │              │
 │  │"How very _odd_ my _pairs_ is blow'd away!"        │              │
 ├──┼───────────────────────────────────────────────────┼──────────────┤
 │D.│          =Great Events and Odd Matters.=          │ _Prognosti-  │
 │  │                                                   │ fications._  │
 ├──┼───────────────────────────────────────────────────┼──────────────┤
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │  │ALL SAINTS. Duke of Cumberland, Lord Lyndhurst,    │              │
 │ 1│  Lord Melbourne, Crockford, Joseph Hume, Dan.     │     duly     │
 │  │  O'Connell.                                       │              │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │ 2│_First Day of  Nervous epidemic among sundry idle  │  concocted   │
 │  │  Term._         gents,                            │              │
 │  │               who expect to be raised to the      │              │
 │  │                 _Bench_, and                      │              │
 │ 3│[Illustration] who are _pressed_ to "man the       │  according   │
 │  │                 _Fleet_."                         │              │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │ 4│                                                   │   to art,    │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │ 5│GUNPOWDER PLOT. Guy _Vaux_ blows up the House of   │   ♀ ⚹ ♏ ☽    │
 │  │  Lords.                                           │              │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │ 6│                FIFTH OF NOVEMBER.                 │              │
 │  │                                                   │    to the    │
 │ 7│What a pity 'tis this glorious fun day             │              │
 │  │Should chance, this year, to fall on Sunday;       │  fulfilment  │
 │ 8│And leave us thus without the hope                 │              │
 │  │Of burning Guy Fawkes and the Pope;                │   whereof    │
 │ 9│Balking the little blackguard boys                 │              │
 │  │Of all their pretty, simple joys!                  │              │
 │10│I'm sure 'twill grieve them very sadly,            │    ☿ ♊ ☽     │
 │  │And _other innocents_ as badly,                    │              │
 │11│Whose pious hate to _warm_ and cherish,            │      I,      │
 │  │The Pope, at all events, should perish;            │              │
 │12│For _fires_ have always been the test              │    RIGDUM    │
 │  │For proving orthodoxy best.                        │              │
 │13│But stay!—perhaps, on application,                 │  FUNNIDOS,   │
 │  │His Holiness a dispensation                        │              │
 │14│May grant, and, merely for this _one_ day,         │      do      │
 │  │Consent to burn with Guy on _Monday_.              │              │
 │15│                                                   │    hereby    │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │16│                                                   │  pledge my   │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │17│                                                   │asstrological │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │18│                                                   │ reputation,  │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │19│                                                   │   ♃ ⊕ ♒ ☉    │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │20│                                                   │    _viz._    │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │21│                                                   │   The doom   │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │22│                                                   │ of _Turkey_  │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │23│                                                   │    may be    │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │24│                                                   │  looked for  │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │25│                                                   │     ♈ ☍      │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │26│First night of Tom and Jerry. _Larks_ in season.   │   as fixed   │
 │  │                                                   │              │
 │27│                                                   │              │
 │  │                                                   │   ☽ ♂ ♀ ♈    │
 │28│                                                   │              │
 │  │                                                   │      at      │
 │29│                                                   │              │
 │  │                                                   │     ♓ ♑      │
 │30│Insurrection of the _Poles_, 1830. Ladies at the   │  Christmas!  │
 │  │  Treadmill refuse to have their hair cropped.     │              │
 └──┴───────────────────────────────────────────────────┴──────────────┘

[Illustration:

  NOVEMBER.—S^t. Cecilia's Day.
]


                             MUSIC'S POWER.

           Music hath pow'r over all the world:
             By the old and young 'tis prized.
           'Tis loved by the great, 'tis loved by the small,
             And by the middle-sized.

           Music hath pow'r o'er the warrior stern,
             In days of repose or of strife.
           In battle, the bagpipe is passing sweet:
             In peace, the drum and fife.

           Music hath pow'r over ladye fair,
             When stars thro' heav'n are straying;
           And under her window her own true-love
             On the hurdy-gurdy's playing.

           Music hath power in the morn of life:
             A pow'r not unfelt by any one.
           No trumpet e'er sounds, in after-days,
             So sweetly as youth's penny one.

           Music hath pow'r in age to recall
             Sweet thoughts of youth and home.
           Oh! how my heart-strings crack to hear
             A boy blow thro' a comb!

           Music hath pow'r over shepherd and swain,
             As, at eve, when the wood-dove moans,
           He softly soothes his soul to repose
             With the jew's-harp's tender tones.

           Music hath pow'r in the solemn aisles,
             A deep and a holy charm:
           When the clerk, with a pitch-pipe symphony,
             Strikes up the hundredth psalm.

           Music hath pow'r in the Thespian halls:
             I've been where thousands sate,
           And heard a thousand pæans rise
             To welcome "All round my hat."

           Music hath pow'r in the city's din.
             How passing sweet to list,
           Amid the busy hum of men,
             To the barrel-organist.

           Music hath pow'r in the forum's walls,
             'Mid the gay and giddy throng.
           Oh! is there a heart that has not beat high
             At the magic sound of the gong?

           Music hath pow'r on the bright, blue lake.
             Oh! how on _thy_ lake, Geneva,
           I've listen'd at eve to the far-off sound
             Of the marrow-bone and cleaver!

           Music hath pow'r on Hybla's hill,
             When summer bees are humming;
           And fair hands charm the insect band,
             On frying-pan sweetly strumming.

           Music hath pow'r when lady lips
             Chant forth some simple ditty
           Of blighted hope or hapless love:—
             Providing the lady's pretty.

           Music hath pow'r at morn's bright hour,
             When the lark to heav'n's gate climbs.
           And, at midnight, how sweet to hear "King Cole"
             Play'd on the parish chimes!

           Music hath pow'r 'neath the torrid zone,
             Where love in his ardour is found;
           And the heart of the Indian melts
             At the tom-tom's am'rous sound.

           Music hath pow'r on Greenland's ice;
             When guileless hearts grow gladder,
           And nimble feet rejoice at the sound
             Of a dozen peas in a bladder.

           Music hath pow'r over brutish hearts,
             To shake them to their middle.
           The nightingale dies on the poet's lute;
             And a bear will dance to a fiddle.

           Yes: music hath power o'er the wide, wide, world:
             A power that's deep and endearing.
           But music now has no power on me,
             For I'm very hard of hearing.

[Illustration:

  DECEMBER.—Christmas Eve.
]

 ┌───────────────────────────────────────────────────┬─────────────────┐
 │                     DECEMBER.                     │           [1837.│
 ├──┬────────────────────────────────────────────────┴─────────────────┤
 │  │"Last scene of all," that ends the year,                          │
 │  │And ushers in brave Christmas cheer,                              │
 │  │Come, deckt as thou wert wont to be,                              │
 │  │In festive smiles and revelry,                                    │
 │  │With roasted beef and minced pies,                                │
 │  │And pudding of gigantic size!                                     │
 │  │Fit emblem of our wealth's vast sum;                              │
 │  │I'd be contented with a _plum_.                                   │
 ├──┼────────────────────────────────────────────────┬─────────────────┤
 │D.│        =Great Events and Odd Matters.=         │   _Prognosti-   │
 │  │                                                │   fications._   │
 ├──┼────────────────────────────────────────────────┼─────────────────┤
 │ 1│                                                │                 │
 │  │                                                │                 │
 │ 2│                A RISING GENIUS.                │      about      │
 │  │                                                │                 │
 │ 3│_Timothy Sly's own Epistle (not the Master's)._ │   which time,   │
 │  │                                                │                 │
 │ 4│DEAR DICK,—I copied my school letter to         │      ⚹ ♒ ☿      │
 │  │Father and Mother ten times before one was good │                 │
 │ 5│enough, and while the teacher is putting the    │      many       │
 │  │  capitals                                      │                 │
 │  │and flourishes in I shall slip this off on the  │                 │
 │  │  sly.                                          │                 │
 │ 6│Our examination was yesterday and the table was │    aldermen     │
 │  │covered with books and things bound in gilt and │                 │
 │  │  silk                                          │                 │
 │ 7│for prizes but were all put away again and none │     will be     │
 │  │  of us                                         │                 │
 │  │got none only they awarded Master Key a new     │                 │
 │  │  fourpenny                                     │                 │
 │ 8│bit for his essay on Locke because his friends  │     hung in     │
 │  │  live                                          │                 │
 │  │next door and little Coombe got the tooth-ake so│                 │
 │  │  they                                          │                 │
 │ 9│would not let him try his experiments on vital  │     chains;     │
 │  │  air                                           │                 │
 │  │which was very scurvy. It didnt come to my turn │                 │
 │  │  so I                                          │                 │
 │10│did not get a prize but as the company was to   │                 │
 │  │  stop                                          │                 │
 │  │tea I put the cat in the water butt which they  │     ☽ ♀ ♊ ♍     │
 │  │  clean                                         │                 │
 │11│it out in the holidays and they will be sure to │                 │
 │  │  find                                          │                 │
 │  │her and we were all treated with tea and I did  │   a dreadful    │
 │  │  not                                           │                 │
 │12│like to refuse as they might have suspext       │                 │
 │  │  something.                                    │                 │
 │  │Last night we had a stocking and bolster fight  │      doom!      │
 │  │  after                                         │                 │
 │13│we went to bed and I fougt a little lad with a  │                 │
 │  │  big                                           │                 │
 │  │bolster his name is Bill Barnacle and I knocked │                 │
 │  │  his                                           │                 │
 │14│eye out with a stone in my stocking but no body │     ♂ ☽ ☌ ♏     │
 │  │  knows                                         │                 │
 │  │who did it because we were all in the dark so I │                 │
 │  │  could                                         │                 │
 │15│not see no harm in it. Dear Dick send me        │                 │
 │  │  directly                                      │                 │
 │  │your Wattses Hyms to show for I burnt mine and a│     but not     │
 │  │  lump                                          │                 │
 │16│of cobblers wax for the masters chair on        │                 │
 │  │  breaking up                                   │                 │
 │  │day and some small shot to pepper the people    │   so dreadful   │
 │  │  with                                          │                 │
 │17│my quill gun and eighteen pence in coppers to   │                 │
 │  │  shy                                           │                 │
 │  │at the windows as we ride through the villiage  │                 │
 │  │  and                                           │                 │
 │18│make it one and ninepence for there's a good    │       ♏ ⚹       │
 │  │  many                                          │                 │
 │  │as Ive a spite against yourself and meet me at  │                 │
 │  │  the                                           │                 │
 │19│Elephant and Castle and if there's room on the  │                 │
 │  │  coach                                         │                 │
 │  │you can get up for I want to give you some      │       as        │
 │  │  crackers                                      │                 │
 │20│to let off as soon as we get home while they are│                 │
 │  │  all                                           │                 │
 │  │a Kissing of me                                 │   their final   │
 │21│                                                │                 │
 │  │                     Your affectionate brother  │    sentence,    │
 │22│                                                │                 │
 │  │                                    TIMOTHY SLY.│     _viz._      │
 │23│                                                │                 │
 │  │                                                │                 │
 │24│                                                │     ♄ ♃ ♂ ☉     │
 │  │                                                │                 │
 │25│CHRISTMAS DAY. Grand Council of _Nice_.         │                 │
 │  │                                                │      to be      │
 │26│                                                │                 │
 │  │                                                │                 │
 │27│                                                │anthropophagized,│
 │  │                                                │                 │
 │28│INNOCENTS. _Lamb's_ Holiday. Celebration of Lord│                 │
 │  │  Melbourne's acquittal.                        │                 │
 │  │                                                │                 │
 │29│                                                │      ♄ ♐ ♎      │
 │  │                                                │                 │
 │30│                 [Illustration]                 │       or        │
 │  │                                                │                 │
 │31│_Silvester_ (Daggerwood?)                       │    devoured!    │
 └──┴────────────────────────────────────────────────┴─────────────────┘


                           THE CRIER'S SONG.

                       Good people all,
                       Both great and small,
                     Come listen to my rhyme!
                 Let others sing the praise of Spring:
                     My theme's the Christmas time.

['Old up the lantern, vill you, Bill?]

                     Oh! time of joy
                     To man and boy;
                   Rich, poor; grave, gay; low, high:
               When none but sounds of mirth are heard;
                   And only criers cry.

                     Come, ope your gates!
                     The bellman waits
                   To claim his annual levy.
               And hopes, to lighten his old heart,
                   You'll stand a pot of heavy.

['Ow werry sewere the cold is, to be sure! it qvite makes von's head
turn round. I might have been having a drop too much—and I'm sure I
haven't: no—not a drop—too much. I only had half a pint o' beer at Mr.
Simkins's—and a small glass of gin at Mr. Wiggins's—and the least drop
as ever vos o' visky at Mr. Higgins's—and a pot of porter at Mr.
Figgins's—and a thimbleful of brandy at Mr. Villiam Smith's—and a mug of
stout at Mr. Valter Smith's—and a glass of grog at Mr. Thomas Smith's—
and the share of a pint of purl at Mr. John Smith's—and a teacupful of
cherry bounce at Vidow Smith's—and a draught of Dublin stout at Miss
Smith's—and I'm sure that couldn't do nob'dy no harm; could it, Bill?]

                         There's not a stage
                         Of youth or age—
                       No spot in life's dull round,
                   But, like a guardian angel, there
                       Your faithful crier is found.

[Vell, I never vos out in sech a frost in _my_ life: I can't keep my
legs the least bit as ever vos. Slippery times these is, to be sure.
Hold the lantern up, vill you, Bill?]

                       When first a wild
                       And "poor lost child,"
                     Seduced by Punch's laughter,
                 You stray in tears about the streets,
                     Don't I go crying after?

[_Vill_ you 'old the lantern stiddy, Bill; and not keep vhirling it
about in that vay. Vot lots o' rewolving lights there is in this part of
the city, to be sure!]

                       In after-life,
                       When vixen wife
                     Goes running o'er the town;
                 And, what is worse, runs you in debt;
                     Why—don't I cry her down?

[Vell, I'm blest if ever I see such printing as this: they've let the
paper slip, and printed the werses twice over.]

                         And when Lord Mayor,
                         The civic chair
                       With dignity you press,
                   For very joy, then, don't I cry—
                       Oh, yes! oh, yes! oh, yes!

[I vishes them there vaits vouldn't make such a nise with their 'arps
and 'orns: nob'dy can't 'ear a vord as _I_ says: they're no gentlemen,
I'm sure: they might vait vaiting till I've done.]

                    Then listen all,
                    Both great and small,
                  To what your crier declares:
              Be sober [_hiccup_], true, and honest; and
                  You all may be Lord Mayors.

[It's no use talking—nor reading nayther—for I can't get a vord out—it's
so werry cold! Werses is qvite lost sitch rhymy veather as this. Bill, I
see there's music and dancing going on at the gin shop over the vay; so
never mind boxing no more to-night, but let's go and jine in the
"Waults."]


                    SCRAPS FROM THE ANNUAL REGISTER.

JAN. 9.—At a general meeting of the Governors of Christ's Hospital, Sir
John Soane's splendid architectural design for a new gateway to the
school was adopted, with one dissentient only, to whom it was conceded,
at his special request, that his _protégé_ should be allowed to enter
through a _Pipe of Port_.

FEB. 10.—An eminent apothecary in the New Road attended at Marylebone
office to prosecute his errand boy, who, when sent out with medicine,
being versed in Shakspeare, used to "throw physic to the dogs," and sell
the empty bottles: the boy had spent the money in going to see the
Bottle Imp. The doctor said his suspicions were first excited by finding
his patients suddenly getting well. His worship at first threatened the
culprit with the pillory and the black-hole; but afterwards changed the
sentence into pills and a black draught, as more severe, and desired his
master to take him home and dose him.

MARCH 10.—A young lady at the Bucks county ball was apparently seized
with convulsions in the midst of a quadrille. Her mamma ran to her
assistance, and matters were soon restored. It seems that, her waist
having been reduced to the minimum of magnitude, she was always obliged
to be unhooked behind before she could sneeze.

MAY 25.—An elderly Gentleman was charged with having kissed a Lady for a
Lark, in the fields near Kentish Town. He was fined five shillings for
not being a better naturalist, with an admonition from the worthy
magistrate, that most of the birds in that district belonged to the
order "Pass-er."

JUNE 23.—The splendid pair of yahoos, recently presented to the
So-oh!-logical Society by the Duke of C——, have shown such extraordinary
apt-ness, under the influence of example and good society, that on
Sunday last, after having been submitted to the respective operations of
Mr. Stulz and Madame Carson, they were allowed to walk out among the
fashionables, when they deported themselves so well, that none but those
in the secret could distinguish them from the rest of the company.

JULY 15.—The torrents which ushered in the morning led many to believe
that, as this was the first day of St. Swithin's _reign_, so he had also
selected it for his coronation; and in this they were confirmed by the
streaming of the people along the streets, and the _wringing_ of the
_Belles_.

AUG. 26.—At the meeting of the British Association, at Bristol,
Professor Buckland announced, as an indisputable fact, that the
antediluvians kept cows, and vended their produce as we do; for, in the
plains of Bul-garia, he had recently discovered a petrified milk walk,
with a fragment of a fossil pump-handle at the end of it.

SEPT. 1.—A sporting Cockney was unlucky enough to hit a cow in the calf
of her leg, at Hornsey. She was no sooner in a limp than he was in a
hobble, and he found to his cost that leg of beef is not always to be
peppered with impunity.

SEPT. 12.—Mr. Curtis announced his intention of standing for the Borough
of _Eye_, in the event of a dissolution of Parliament, and made his
opening speech to the voters amidst cries of "_Ear! Ear!_"

OCT. 10.—"Found, a healthy male Infant," &c., &c. That ancient _sine quâ
non_ to persons crossing the seas, a child's _caul_, is now a mere drug
in the market. Instead of making it a _compagnon de voyage_, numbers
cross the seas to avoid it. A child's _call_, in high preservation, may
be picked up on any moonlight night, in any blind alley where you see
"Rubbish to be shot here." A handbill headed "Desertion," formerly a
monstrosity of un-English shape, is now a forme that the parish printer
always keeps standing; and the beadles dryly observe, that they are
become wet nurses to the children of half the parish. The Honourable
Commissioners of the mechanical powers, Messrs. Leave-er, Wedge, and
Screw, are indefatigable in fulfilling the intentions of their employers
who have devised this happy state of things, to save themselves and
their hopeful heirs from the unpleasant necessity of answering "A
child's call."

NOV. 2.—A resolution was carried in the Common Council not to allow any
more money for summer excursions on the water. The minority said they
dreaded the vengeance of the ladies, and many members returned home in a
very unhappy state, looking anxiously about for inscriptions of "Broken
crockery mended here;" for they knew, by past experience, that man is
the vessel that goes to pot when it comes to family jars.

                  *       *       *       *       *

       _Our revels concluded, a merry farewell
   To all but a few irreclaimable sinners,
       Who, if they were honest, might happen to tell
   That they've had their deserts, tho' we've ruin'd their dinners._



                                  THE
                             COMIC ALMANACK
                               FOR 1838.


                           MANNERS MADE EASY;
           OR, HOW TO COBBLE A SILK PURSE OUT OF A SOW'S EAR.

                         "Γαμμον ανδ Σπιναγε."

Punctuality is essential to the character of a Gentleman. Early in the
New Year send peremptorily for all your bills. If they do not arrive in
a day or two, send again. By this exactness, you give your tradesmen
confidence, and ensure their civility for some time, in the hope of a
settlement. Having thus prevented any increase of charges, you can pay
at your leisure. I have heard of a gentleman whose aversion to the sight
of paper ruled in money columns had been indulged in as long as was
consistent with his personal safety, who thus addressed a creditor for
whom the _shut sesame_ of "call again" had lost its charm. "After having
for many years neglected my affairs, I have at length awakened to a
sense of my error, and have resolved, by a vigorous system of economy,
to retrieve them. Method, Sir, I now perceive that method is everything.
From this day I set apart a certain portion of my income sacred to the
payment of my debts."—"I am delighted, Sir, to hear of your noble
resolution."—"I have made a schedule of all I owe, and shall begin at
the top and persevere undeviatingly in regular though slow succession
towards the bottom:—so that you see, my dear Mr. Figgins"—"Sir, my name
is Wiggins"—"Wiggins! I had quite forgot; but I am sorry to hear it,
very sorry—for my list is alphabetical. Had it been Figgins, or even
Higgins, there would have been some chance for you, but the W's are so
very low down.—No, I cannot say when I shall reach the W's."

If you wish to refuse the request of an old friend or a poor relation,
but can hardly screw your courage to the sticking-place, put on a pair
of tight shoes, and you will find it perfectly easy.

Never introduce your friends to strangers without their consent, nor
permit such a liberty towards yourself, especially about November. Many
have been entrapped into the hands of John Doe and Richard Roe thereby,
unawares.

Choose rainy days to pay your visits on. You will thus show your
sincerity, and be less likely to miss callers at home. Take your cloak
and hat into the drawing-room—to leave them below would be like one of
the family—but, above all, carry in your umbrella; you have no right to
leave it streaming in another person's hall.

When you visit your maiden aunt, as you value your legacy expectant,
preserve an amiable face, and keep you hands and feet to yourself, while
her favourite tom cat reposes in you the height of his friendship by
looking you full in the face and vigorously stretching himself by the
aid of his ten talons hooked through your tight and tender kerseymeres.

Though you may be a Nabob, or as rich as one, be not too anxious to
parade your black servants before your friends, for both your sakes;
they have, in general, two bad qualities—"stealing and giving odour."—
Shakspeare, hem!

Never marry a widow (unless her first husband was hanged), or she will
be always drawing unpleasant comparisons.

Never refuse a pinch of snuff, but do not become a snuff-taker: it is
paying through the nose for a little pleasure.

Avoid argument with Ladies. In spinning a yarn among Silks and Satins, a
man is sure to be _Worsted_.

It is common to speak contemptuously of tailors and dress-makers. This
is bad taste; none but a rat would run down the sewers.

When a lady sits down to the pianoforte, always volunteer to turn over
the leaves. To be able to read music is of no consequence, as you will
know that she is at the bottom of a page when she stops short. If you
turn over two leaves at once, you will probably have the secret thanks
of most of the company.

When your friend enters the room instantly rise, and, though there may
be half a dozen unoccupied chairs at hand, draw him with gentle force
into your own. You will thus show the warmth of your friendship; for a
damp seat may be as bad as a damp bed.

In driving out never make a lady treasurer of the turnpike trusts;—or,
when you want twopence for a toll, you have to wait while the reticule
string is snapped in two; then, out comes a lace-edged white muslin
worked pocket-handkerchief, a pair of lemon-coloured kid-gloves, a
smelling-bottle, a bunch of keys, and, to crown all, a five-shilling
piece to change. All this time you are stuck fast in the jaws of a
turnpike gate, the Brighton Quicksilver in your rear, driver raving at
your back, leaders snorting over your shoulder.

Never plan a pic-nic, on pain of skulking about the town for six months
after, dreading to meet, at every turn, the infuriated looks of the
bereaved parents of half a dozen little innocents in white frocks and
trousers, who have been washed away by an inundation; or to encounter
the menacing glances of budding heroes, fierce in the rudiments of
moustaches and chin-tufts, whose Celias and Delias have dropped into a
decline through sitting on the damp grass at your instigation.

Never hesitate to take a friend with you when you go out to dinner.
Disappointments are so frequent that the lady of the house may perhaps
be glad of a spare gentleman to fill up a gap.

In carving, remember that "'twere well it were done quickly." He must
be, therefore, the best carver who soonest fills the greatest number of
plates. Waste no time in asking if people like a wing or a leg, this bit
or that—many do not know their minds on any subject. Besides, as they
cannot all have the prime cuts, nothing but discontent can ensue from
giving them the choice.

As too much of a good thing is morally impossible, fill the plates well—
the delicate can leave half, and the modest are saved the unpleasantness
of a second application; besides making the hostess your eternal friend,
if, through your management in the outset, some of the dishes go away
uncut for another day.

Always return into the dish, before it goes from table, any portion of a
ragout that your friends may leave in their plates. It is ten to one if
your careless servants think of doing so afterwards.

Instead of waiting for the dessert, let your children come in with the
first course—they cannot be used to good society too soon. They will
furnish topics for conversation, and if any present be vulgar enough to
require a second supply of soup, when the tureen is at low water mark,
they will probably relieve your embarrassment by upsetting it, and so
dispose of the question.

Help the darlings first—they are dearer to you than mere visitors, to
whom you might, otherwise, inadvertently transfer some delicate bits on
which the little cherubs had set their minds.

Do not detain the toothpick long after dinner—it's unpleasant to be kept
waiting for it.

If a lady request you to select an apple for her, bite a piece out. How
can you recommend it without?

Always wipe the brim of a pot of porter with your sleeve, if you are
about to hand it to a lady.


                       HIEROGLYPHICUM IN FUTURO.

      The Queen of Hearts, VIRGO, a bright constellation,
      (That she'll turn up a trump is the hope of the nation),
      By a whole pack of outlandish knaves who are suing,
      Is sorely beset, for she shrinks from their wooing.
      Each holds out a circle in which to entrap her,
      And ev'ry one hopes that _he_ shall kidnap her.
      But occult operations behind the state curtain
      Shew an _Elph_, that makes _their_ success very uncertain.
      Now, look to the left, and you'll see that _Egalité_,
      That awful French thing, wants to pull down _Regality_;
      And, much to the horror of all Christian people,
      It tugs at the Church,—or, at least, at the steeple.
      A sage-looking wight, who is marking the "Movement,"
      Seems to think it by no means would be an improvement;
      But as prophecies often show forth strange vagaries,
      And, nine times in ten, are explained by contraries,
      Let us hope we shall find that a people's affection
      Is the very best remedy 'gainst disaffection.
      May it crush the foul traitors who love revolution,
      And preserve all that's good in our wise constitution.

[Illustration:

  JANUARY.—New Year's Eve.
]

                             JANUARY                               [1838

[Illustration]

[Illustration]


                              JACK FROST.

         Hail, Snow! not the white head at Snow and Paul's,
           But speaking city-wise, that oddity
         Which rises higher as the more it falls,
           A paradoxial commodity.

         The schoolboy's long expected an-nu-al;—
         Abandon'd now are wicket, bat, and ball;
         Gradus, degraded—manual, underfoot—
         Rebate, at discount—routed, cubic-root.

         The pelted village idol, by the way,
           With hideous grin uplifts his hoary pate,
         To make a parson swear, or poacher pray,
           Or frighten some old woman passing late.

         Perchance a supple New Poor-Law Commissioner,
           On plans of pauper diet deep intent,
         May start and think of some white-haired petitioner,
         Turned out to starve by act of parliament.

         But what cares he for hot, cold, wet, or dry?
         Thanks to the Whigs, he gets his sal-a-ry.

12 Lavater d. 1801.

                 "I think I've seen your face before."
                             "WERRY LIKE."

26 Botany Bay colonized, 1788.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

                Rejoice and praise, in merry lays,
                  The wisdom of the wigs,
                Which kindly found, on classic ground,
                  A paradise for prigs.

                Assembled there, in talent rare,
                  Each knave salutes a brother,
                And friendly yet, their wit they whet,
                  By practice on each other.

31 Young Pretender d. 1788. _N.B._ Race not extinct.


                       MY DANCING DAYS ARE OVER.
               _By the Gentleman in the White Waistcoat._

                My dancing days are over now,
                    My legs are just like stumps;
                My fount of youth dried up, alas!
                    Wont answer to the pumps,
                Yet who so fond of jigs as I?
                    Of hornpipes such a lover?
                Of gallops, valses,—but, alas!
                    My dancing days are over.

                In feats of feet, what foot like mine
                    (Excuse me if vain-glorious:)
                Like mine for grace and dignity
                    No toe was more notorious.
                Oh! then what joy it was to hear
                    _Roy's Wife_ or _Kitty Clover_!
                But _Drops of Brandy_ now won't do:
                    My dancing days are over.

                My feet seem fastened down with screws,
                    That were so glib before;
                And my ten light fantastic toes
                    Seem toe'-nailed to the floor.
                I cannot bear a ball room now,
                    Where once I lived in clover;
                Terpsichore quite made me sick;
                    My dancing days are over.

                I used to dance the New Year in,
                    And dance the Old Year out;
                Ah! little did I then reflect
                    That _chacun à son_ gout,
                All summer thro' I skipped and hopped,
                    At Margate, Ramsgate, Dover.
                The year was then one spring—but now
                    My dancing days are over.

                I'm eighteen stone and some odd pounds:
                    So all my neighbours say.
                I'll go this moment to the scale;
                    But I can't _balancez_.
                When in a ball room I appear,
                    As soon as they discover
                My presence, off the girls all fly,
                    My dancing days are over.

                I'm quite as fat as Lambert was,
                    Or any old maid's spaniel;
                And when I walk along the street
                    They cry, "A second Daniel!"
                And if I go into a shop
                    Of tailor, hatter, glover,
                They always open _both_ the doors:
                    My dancing days are over.

                My college chums oft jeer at me,
                    And cry, "Lord, what a porpus!
                Who'd take you for a Johnian?
                    You seem to be of Corpus!"
                The stage-coachmen all look as if
                    They wished me at Hanóver:
                The safety cabs don't think me safe:
                    My dancing days are over.

                My great pier glass, that used to show
                    My waist so fine and thin;
                Now, turn whichever way I will,
                    Won't take my body in.
                My form, that once a parasol
                    Would always amply cover,
                A gig umbrella now requires:
                    My dancing days are over.

                In vain my hand I offer now;
                    Away each damsel stalks;
                Chalk'd floors no longer may I walk,
                    So I must walk my chalks.
                For me there is no woman-kind:
                    None wait me now for lover.
                Maid, widow, wife, all fly—they know
                    My dancing days are over!

                             FEBRUARY                              [1838


                            VALENTINE'S DAY.

 It's very odd, and even so, and why I can't discover,
 That I should wait, at Cupid's gate, the knocking of a lover;
 There's old Miss Young, with wily tongue, has tickled Captain Sly;
 The wrinkled frump will bear his stump, to get a Leg-a-cy.
 There's little Brown, I set him down for sure among the shymen,
 He is, altho' so short a beau, drawn in the knot of _High-men_.
 And Corp'ral Scout, to buy him out, the Widow does not falter,
 It hurts her pride that he should ride so long without a _haltar_:
 But pert Miss Green, just turn'd sixteen, she need not use such speed,
 To make a hash with Count Moustache—'tis Baby-work indeed.

14 Blackstone d. 1780.

[Illustration:

  Judge of A-Size.
]

                 Judge Blackstone was a learned judge,
                   As wise as ever sat,
                 He wore his head within his wig,
                   His wig within his hat.

                 Judge Blackstone made a learned book
                   On subjects, and on kings,
                 And many reasons sage he gave
                   For many foolish things.

                 And many a wily way he found
                   For lawyers to get fat in,
                 And common sense, and English sound,
                   He smothered in dog-latin.

                 And simple ways made strange to see,
                   As clients, to their loss tell;
                 And many things that law may be,
                   Altho' they be not Gos-pel.

                 But since (see Job) we are but worms,
                   Our destiny we fill,
                 No doubt, in being gobbled up
                   By some long lawyer's bill.

28 Hare Hunting ends. "_Nemo est hæres viventis._"—BLACKSTONE.

[Illustration:

  FEBRUARY.—Frost Fair.
]


                              FROST FAIR:
                         A LAMENT. BY TOM TUG.

 Vell, blow me tight, but here's a go! I can't hardly believe my eyes,
 It's a rig'lar Bartlemy Fair afloat, vith its stalls, and peep-shows,
    and t'ys,
 And vonderful lambs vithout niver a head, and vonderfuller pigs with
    three;
 And ships a svimmin' about in the air, instead of on the water, vere
    they orts to be;
 And chaps a selling peppermint to keep the cold out, vich is jest the
    vorst thing under the sun;
 And people a having their names printed on cards, vot can't read 'em
    ven they're done;
 And lads and lasses a dancing and singing, and up to all manner o'
    queer raps;
 And fat sheep a roasting whole, but not a bit for us poor amphibilous
    chaps;
 And fellers a playing at nine pins on the ice, vot can't stand on their
    own two;
 And ticket porters a stopping to see Punch, instead of going on their
    arrans, as they orts to do;
 And firemen a cutting about here and there, as big and grand as any
    lord or squire.
 Vith their red coats and badges—I s'pose they're afeard o' someb'dy's
    setting the Thames afire—
 And booths up and down of all sorts and sizes, till it looks like a
    Boothia Felix quite,
 Vith the moniment for the North Pole—that is, ven the fog and smoke'll
    let you git a sight—
 And the turnpike men off the warious bridges, vith nothink in the vorld
    to do all day
 But go to sleep on their rusty turnstiles, for in course people ain't
    sitch spoons as to pay
 To pass thro' their rewolving plate-warmers, ven they can go over the
    vater free;
 Vich I don't care so much for the bridge chaps, 'cause they does a good
    deal o' harm to we.

 As for Billingsgate Market, the trade there's downright flat, ruinated
    and dead;
 The fine fresh soles can't come up to be cried, and so they cries
    cast-metal skates instead.
 I alvays thought sitch things vos regilated by act of parlyment, and
    proclaimed by the Lord Mayor;
 I knows a bit o' Burnses's Justice, I does; and my opinion is, it aint
    a legle fair.
 It's a nice look out, ain't it, for a young man vot the vater's his
    only bread?
 I'm blowed if I don't think I shall cut the river, and take to the land
    instead,
 And labour for the adwantage o' science—body-snatching, I mean—for
    where's the harm, ifegs!
 Ven their ain't no further demand for skulls, to try to do a little
    bisness in arms and legs?
 As for the vind, I think it'll never be nothink but due nor' again:
 I often looks up at the weathercock, but, bless your heart, it's all in
    _vane_!
 Poor fellers! as Shakespear says, our occipation's rig'lar done up, and
    no mistake,
 Vot vith von thing or another (vich von misfortin, you know, alvays
    brings another in its wake).


 I don't like to say nothink unliberal or unvatermanlike, but this I
    vill say, the ruin of us is
 Them tarnation, smoking, steaming, fizzing, pothering,
    unnattaral-looking water-buses.
 Unnattaral, _I say_—for who ever meant wessels to go on wheels? or a
    nasty, long, curly, black,
 Stinking, pothery pennant o' smoke to take place o' the British Union
    Jack?
 And as if that vosn't enough, to spoil our trade and set all our poor
    old hearts a breaking,
 Mr. Brunel must come to finish us up, poor wretches! vith his horrid
    _under_-taking.
 Mister B. is a wery ambitious man, that's vot he is, and his work a
    wery great bore:
 But, thank heav'n! it'll be a long time before his tunnel (whatever his
    fame may do) reaches from shore to shore.

 I never gets a sight o' nothink good now—beefsteaks, nor anything else
    that's nice:
 No ingins (except steam ingins), and you may count my ribs (tho' you
    can't the ribs of ice).
 I did a job for a confectioner t'other day, as vos a trying to larn to
    skate,
 But his heels tript up right bang, and down he fell on the back of his
    pate.
 Vell, up I vips him in my arms, and carries him straight off home in a
    trice.
 I _did_ think I should get a glass of grog for that job, but, says he,
    "Von't you take a ice?"
 "No, Sir," says I, walking off wery indignant, and looking jest as sour
    as sour crout,
 "Ven I takes a drop o' liquor I al'ys has it 'varm vith'—I doesn't like
    'cold vithout.'"

 But it's no use talking, for talking only makes one more hungrier and
    more drier:
 And the heat of argiment's wery unlike the heat of a good kitchen fire.
 I'm as dry as an old boat, vot ain't good for nothink in life but to
    knock up and burn;
 And so I sees plain enough suicide's the only side on vich I can turn.
 Bless you, I'm as hollow as a drum, and as thin as any poor devil of a
    church mouse;
 So here goes for the fatal plunge—what's a plunge more or less to a man
    as hasn't got a _sous_?

 Here goes—but, oh, crikey! vhere _am_ I to go to find a drop o' vater
    un-froze?
 Vell, that's the cuttingest thing of all—to think as a man can't put a
    end to his woes
 In his own native element, as he vos bred and born to, and lived in,
    man and b'y,
 Uppards of thirty-six year come next Midsummer (vich it never vill come
    again to I).
 Vell, I've tuck my leave of the river, and my poor miserable little
    funny, so pretty and red:
 I shall never shoot Lunnun Bridge no more, so I'll go and shoot myself
    instead.

[Illustration:

  A CHARITY BALL—Dancing for the Million.
]


                          THE GOOD OLD TIMES.

          Let others sing of times to come—
              Of joys that never will!
          My song shall be of days gone by:
              So, boys, a bumper fill
          To the good old times! oh, the good old times!
              Their like we ne'er shall see:
          The world was full of honest hearts,
              And life went merrily.

          In the days of youth, when all was flowers,
              And ev'ry month was May,
          And my spirits were light as the thistle down
              And my heart was always gay,
          I loved a fair and gentle maid
              With all the constancy
          That a mutual flame in youth can inspire:
              But, alas! she jilted me.
                  Oh, the good old times! the good old times
                      Their like we ne'er shall see:
                  The world was full of honest hearts,
                      And life went merrily.

          Friends of to-day, how vain are they!
              The partners of an hour,
          That fortune gathers round a man,
              As sunshine wakes the flow'r.
          _My_ friend and I, in infancy,
              Play'd 'neath the same old tree:
          One home was ours for long, long years,
              Till my friend arrested me.
                  Oh, the good old times! the good old times!
                      Their like we ne'er shall see:
                  The world was full of honest hearts,
                      And life went merrily.

          My country's cause was always mine—
              Britannia, ocean's bride!—
          A patriot's name my dearest boast,
              A patriot's heart my pride.
          My leader was "the people's friend;"
              'Twas thus he gain'd my vote:
          But they put him on the pension list,
              And _the patriot_ turn'd his coat.
                  Oh, the good old times! the good old times!
                      Their like we ne'er shall see:
                  The world was full of honest hearts,
                      And life went merrily.

          'Twas then I felt that honour dwelt
              In noble ancestry;
          That still in high and gentle blood
              Some secret virtues lie.
          My champion now I joy'd to hear
              Rail at the parvenu:
          But I soon found _him_ on the Civil List—
              With his wife and cousins too.
                  Oh, the good old times! the good old times!
                      Their like we ne'er shall see:
                  The world was full of honest hearts,
                      And life went merrily.

          Disgusted with the city's vice
              I to the country sped.
          A simple husbandman, my life
              'Mid flocks and herds I led.
          The livelong day I'd pipe and play,
              Or on some thyme-bank sleep:
          But at night they broke into my folds,
              And stole my cows and sheep.
                  Oh, the good old times! the good old times!
                      Their like we ne'er shall see:
                  The world was full of honest hearts,
                      And life went merrily.

          They told me 'twas my single state
              That harass'd thus my life;
          And to the altar soon I led
              A young and lovely wife.
          Oh! then what joys, what hopes were mine.
              Life seem'd a brighter heaven:
          But my wife eloped with her cousin Tom,
              And left me infants seven.
                  Oh, the good old times! the good old times!
                      Their like we ne'er shall see:
                  The world was full of honest hearts,
                      And life went merrily.

                              MARCH                                [1838

[Illustration:

  MARCH,—S^t. Patrick's Day.
]

[Sidenote: MARCH
           of Mind
           in the
           Privileged
           Classes:
           Marquess of
           W——
           and other
           such asses.
           ⚹ ☿ ♏ ♀
           ♊ ☽ ♂ ☌
           MARCH
           of
           Musical Science
           also
           'mong high
           and low,
           who jump
           Jim Crow;
           [Illustration]
           ♀ ♒ ♄ ☿
           the force of
           taste
           ☍ ♈ ♀ ⚹
           can
           no further
           go!]


                          TAFFY'S ANNIVERSARY.

          Come, Liberality!—I hail the name,
          Whether 'tis "all for love," or love for fame—
          Whether to strike the world is your desire,
          In printed lists of donors dubbed "Esquire;"
          Whether to govern in those stately domes
          Where Want's pale children sigh in vain for homes,
          And few but those who're blest with wealth and kin,
          And means to keep them out, can struggle in;
          Whether you boldly sport your own bank-notes,
          Or beg about for other people's votes;
          Whether you fill the presidential chair,
          Or join the throng because a Lord is there;
          Or, like some Lords, whose plan is rather funny,
          Put down your name, but never pay the money.
          But if, like some, the only certain way
          To reach your heart does through your stomach lay,
          Then mount the leek, a true Saint David's son,
          And let the fund afford a little fun,
          'Mid warring knives, and charge of glasses' din,
          Turn out your purse, and be well lined within.
          Tough tho' the mutton, as a saddle, there,
          Like Bardolph, you can eat, and "eat and swear,"
          And doom, with aching teeth and furious looks,
          The dinner to the sire of all bad cooks.—
          But now behold, the dishes clear'd and gone,
          Three dismal men who twine three tunes in one,
          And send forth sounds, with faces sad to see,
          Call'd by the chair, "The favour of a Glee."—
          Appealing lists appal you now, and they
          Are nail'd for pounds, who screw for pence all day.
          But hear the sweet applauses of the crowd,
          When Mister Secretary reads aloud
          That Smith or Jones has put down One Pound One;
          Then, if you've luck to get a hat, begone,
          Unless you longing linger near the spot
          To hear "Should auld acquaintance be forgot."

[Illustration]


                           ST. PATRICK'S DAY.
                         _An Irish Mellow-day._

    It was Paddy O'Murrough that lov'd Mistress Casey:
        In ribbons for her he would squander his pelf;
    And he swore that without her he'd never be aisy,
        And sent her big praties to roast for herself.

    He said she was "Vanus, and Mars, and Apolly,"
        And twenty more goddesses up in de skies:
    And never tired praising her swate little ankle,
        And her swate little mouth, and her swate little eyes.

    Says he, "Let de rest git dere bunches o' roses,
        And stick 'em so iligant top o' dere head:
    Och! Nora don't nade sich bamboozlificashin:
        Her own purty locks is as bright an' as red.

    "So, Nora, my darlint, now take pity on me—
        Ochone! but 'tis luv is de terrible smart!
    An och, bodderashin! 'tis Misther O'Cupid
        Wid his little shilaly is breakin' my heart!"

    'Twas Lent when Pat said so,—but Nora said, "No, Sir;"
        She knew 'twas no use at that time to consent;
    But by Mothering Sunday Pat found her much softer,
        And before Lent was over, he saw her relent.

    The day was soon fixed—Easter Monday, be sure,
        The time seem'd to Pat a snail's gallop to go;
    "By de hokey!" says he, "is it fast days dey call 'em?
        For fast days I tink dey move murtherous slow."

    At length Easter Monday arrived bright and gay,
        Saint Patrick's Day too—nothing could be more pat
    To chapel away they all went—in a _buss_:
        For a wedding, what carriage so proper as that?

    So the knot was soon happily tied—tho' I know
        There are some in the world think it wrong thus to tie men;
    That the poor have no right to get married at all;
        And that low men have no sort of bus'ness with Hymen.

    Return'd, they sat down to an iligant feast:
        An divil the knife or the fork that lies idle;
    There's praties in plenty, pig-puddings, and pork,
        And a saddle of mutton, to match with the bridal.

    And then comes the dance, and the drink, and the toast:
        "Pat Murrough, your health—you're a broth of a b'y"
    Och! how tipsy they were! e'en the clargy himself,
        Like Pity, was seen with a drop in his eye.

    Then in comes Mick Larry, Pat Murrough's old rival,
        With a lot of his friends from Sev'n Dials direct;
    And och! what a scrimmige and murther intirely!
        And then the police comes, the peace to protect.

    Then straight to the beak Paddy Murrough is taken:
        Mick Larry himself 'tis appears against Pat;
    Says the beak, "You're with bigamy charged, Paddy Murrough!"
        "Och, big'my! 'tis little I know sure of that!"

    "What is it, your wurtchip?" says Paddy.—Says he,
        "'Tis a serious offence 'gainst the laws of the nation—
    To marry two wives, which is bigamy call'd—
        And the punishment death—or, at least, transportation.

    "So take leave of your spouses, for I must commit you!"
        "Stop a minnit, my jewel!" says Paddy, says he:
    "Sure I know'd very well what your wurtchip has tould me;
        And so, to be safe, I got married to three!"

                              APRIL                                [1838

[Illustration]


                             THE DARBY DAY.

 Come, Bet, my pet, and Sal, my pal, a buss, and then farewell—
 And Ned, the primest ruffling cove that ever nail'd a swell—
 To share the swag, or chaff the gab, we'll never meet again,
 The hulks is now my bowsing crib, the hold my dossing ken.
 Don't nab the bib, my Bet, this chance must happen soon or later,
 For certain sure it is that transportation comes by natur;
 His lordship's self, upon the bench, so downie his white wig in,
 Might sail with me, if friends had he to bring him up to priggin;
 And is it not unkimmon fly in them as rules the nation,
 To make us end, with Botany, our public edication?
 But Sal, so kind, be sure you mind the beaks don't catch you tripping,
 You'll find it hard to be for shopping sent on board the shipping:
 So tip your mauns afore we parts, don't blear your eyes and nose,
 Another grip, my jolly hearts—here's luck, and off we goes!


                         SETTLING FOR THE HOAX.

[Illustration]

3 LOW SUNDAY. "_Facile est descensus_—"

8 Sir R. Peel resigned, 1835.

                To all the virtues of exalted station,
                He adds the greater one of resignation.

15 Clock with Sun.

[Illustration]

  _Caution._—Never undertake to get a lady's watch repaired, or you
    will be held responsible for its defects ever after.

24 Geological Society instituted, 1826.

[Illustration]

           Kind friends in need are they who make no bones,
           When paupers ask for bread, to give them stones.

[Illustration:

  APRIL.——_Low_ Sunday.
]


                        ODE TO SIR ANDREW AGNEW:
                      AND ALL WHOM IT MAY CONCERN.

    Sir Andrew Agnew, oh! thou scourge of sinners,
              Thou legislator against vice
                      And nice
                Hot Sunday dinners!
                What shall we do
    Now thou art gone—thou and Sir Oswald[3] too—
              To make men fast and pray
              Each seventh day?
    Who now shall save us from sin's burning embers?
    Now that we've lost our two old _Marrowbone_ members?
        But seriously, Sir Andrew, do you think
        There's so much harm in meat and drink?
                  That a hot steak
                  Ate once a week
        Shows a depraved state of society?
                That frizzled bacon
                Argues a soul mistaken?
                  And—pray don't start!—
        That devil'd kidneys show a dev'lish heart?
            That there is irreligion in hot fry?
            And that cold pie alone is pie-ty?
        If so, begin, Sir, with the rich: ask these
        To give up their ragouts, and stews, and fricassees.
    I guess they'd think your application rather strange;
              But if you _will_ work out your Bill,
    Believe me, you must take a wider kitchen range.
              Then, Sir, you think it wrong
              In 'bus or cab to ride along
                        The streets,
                    Intent on rural treats
        At Hampstead, Islington, or Turnham Green;
                But have you never seen
                      The crowd
        Of knights and dames, on palfreys fierce and proud,
                      That fill
        Hyde Park o' Sundays? I don't wish to tease,
            But, Sir, for riders such as these,
    There ought, I think, to be a rider to your Bill.
    No doubt it's very wrong, and shows but little _nous_,
        To go a tea-drinking, and making merry
        At th' _Eagle_, _Rosemary Branch_, or _Yorkshire Stingo_;—
                _Chalk Farm's_ as vile, by jingo!
    There's something very black about _White Conduit House_.
                  Richmond is sad;
                  And Twickenham's as bad:
        And Hampton Wick is very wicked—very.
        But, Sir,—excuse the freedom of my pen—
                  D'ye think that they
                  Who spend the day
              At Tattersall's, in laying wagers
              On Derbys, Oaks, and Legers,
                  Are _better_ men?
    And then, the Clubs!—where gambling of all kinds,
        And vices such as daylight never saw,
    Are carried on behind cast-metal blinds—
        For these, Sir, can't you frame some new Club Law?
                  Then, Sir, I know
                  You vote rat-killing low;
                    And wouldn't sit
              For worlds in the Westminster Pit.
        And so no doubt it is—extremely shocking;
                    But so is cocking!
        And I have known full many a _noble_ lord
              (I have, upon my word,)
              Fight cocks upon this day:
                        So pray,
        Before for us poor folks you legislate,
        Just try to quell this main-ia in the great.
            Then music drives you mad:
            And, Scotchman tho' you be,
                      I know
        You wouldn't suffer even a Scotch fiddle;
                  And, as for "down the middle,"
            And such-like tricks of Dame Terpsichore,
        I've often heard you say they're quite as bad:
        And that all persons merit a sound whipping
                  Who are found tripping.
                      (_Àpropos_—
              How you'd be shock'd in France,
              To see, Sir, a whole country dance!)
        Mind! I don't say but that all this is wrong:
        But is it worse, Sir, than the Sunday song
        Of Grisi, Albertazzi, Betts, Rubini,
              Lablache, or Tamburini?
        And would it not be better first to wipe out
    This sin among the high and mighty of the State,
        Before you put the poor man's pipe out?
              For my part, I think _Vivi tu_
        As wicked as _All round my hat_—don't you?
              And really I don't know
              How you can stop _Jim Crow_,
                  And let the rich
    Carry their concerts, Sir, to such a concert pitch.
                  And, if, Sir, I may speak
              My mind, your plan to gag our week
        (Tho' done, perhaps, with very best intention)
                  Is but a _weak_ invention.
              Besides, Sir, here's a poser,—
              At least to _me_ it seems a closer,
    And shows a shocking lack of legislative skill—
    If nothing, Sir, 's to work from Saturdays to Mondays,
                  Pray how's your Bill
                  To work on Sundays?

Footnote 3:

  Sir O. Moseley, who lost his election, they say, from having seconded
  Sir Andrews' Sunday Bill.

[Illustration:

  MAY,—"All a growing!"
]

                               MAY                                 [1838


                         BOWING AND HARROWING.

[Sidenote: MAY
           the grand
           Coronation
           give joy
           to the
           Nation!
           ☿ ☊ ♏
           MAY
           the
           QUEEN
           live
           for ever!
           huzza!
           ♑ ♌ △
           MAY
           Tories
           and
           Whigs
           run
           no more
           of their
           rigs!
           ♈ ♍ ☊
           and
           John Bull
           have
           less taxes
           to pay!]

           Oh! the Archers of Frogshot assemble to-day,
           And the fame of their doings has spread a great way;
           In lacings and facings they're beaten by no men,
           They've plenty of Beaux there, but very few Bow-men.
           There are Misses to hit, who no longer will tarry,
           And many Maid Mari-ans willing to marry;
           There's a Robin Hood fierce with nobody to fear him,
           And Tell shoots the apple of eyes that come near him;
           There are Foresters, famous for eating a dinner,
           And prizes, all sizes, but wanting a winner,
           And Dames in a pet if they get their pet-dog shot;
           And these are the deeds of the Archers of Frogshot.

13 Edmund Kean d. 1833.


                          AMATEUR THEATRICALS.

[Illustration]

                   Behold the beardless _Flat_, a fancied _Kean_;
                   The mawkish maid a stilted heroine;
                   Tailors, retailers, spread dismay around,
                   Heroes, by "=This Endenture=," basely bound,
                   Braving the Chamberlain's portentous frown,
                   Wield the baton, or mount the paper crown;
                   Renounce their civic fetters for a throne;
                   For _horses_ barter _kingdoms_ not their own;
                   And find too late,—too soon, perhaps, by far,—
                   The stage a half-way step from bench to _bar_.
                   That Queen, in satin train, was trained in camlet,
                   And he carves Ham who nightly cuts up Hamlet;
                   The frail Jane Shore perchance is no impostor;
                   While Gloster's Duke by day serves double Gloster;
                   And 'tis but heaping Pelion on Ossa,
                   If Ross, the barber, shines as Barbarossa.
                   Then cheer up, Covent Garden! courage, Drury!
                   Misfortune's storms in vain may vent their fury,
                   When counter, kitchen, garret, bench, and stall,
                   Send forth such champions to avert your fall.

31 Joe Grimaldi d. 1836.

[Illustration]

                 Farewell, transcendant Joe!
                 Thou mirth-inspiring wight!
                 Who, tho' thou wert so Grim-all-day,
                 Yet mad'st us laugh at night.


                       JOHN BUDD AND SUKEY SIMS.

             Susanna Sims was under nurse
                 To little Messieurs Cole;
             And John Budd was a gardener,
                 That lived at Camber_woll_.
             And John would often say to Sue,
                 "We're for each other made:
             For vy—ain't I a nursery-man,
                 And you a nursery-maid?"

             He said she was his pink, his rose,
                 His _Clarkia Grandiflora_:
             And swore no love had ever root
                 Like to the love he bore her.
             Yet still, whenever he talk'd thus,
                 She look at him quite gruff,
             And "Come now, Mister Budd," she'd say,
                 "None of your garden stuff!"

             And every year, as spring came round,
                 With flow'rs of every hue,
             He'd cull the fairest of them all,
                 And carry them to Sue.
             But all in vain for him to bring
                 The sweetest buds of May;
             For cruel Susan still turned up
                 Her nose at his nosegay.

             Vainly in search of blossoms rare
                 He wandered to and fro:
             She spurn'd them all; and every bloom
                 To him was a fresh blow.
             And when he'd boast his pretty birds,
                 Their songs and merry freaks,
             She'd say, "John Budd, I doesn't care
                 A twopence for the beaks."

             The fact was this, _another_ swain
                 Had won fair Susan's heart—
             The fancy-bread man, Sammy Twist—
                 For him she felt love's smart.
             And still, while "Oh! 'tis love, 'tis love!"
                 Was running in John's head,
             Susanna Sims would sing, "Oh! tell
                 Me where is _fancy bread_?"

             No doubt it was a puzzling state
                 To be in—that of Sue:
             The baker's man was very poor,
                 John Budd was well to do.
             One hour she'd say, "I'll marry Sam;"
                 Another, "No, I wont."
             Poor Susan Sims! Love whisper'd "_Dough_:"
                 But Interest said "Don't."

             At last Sue quite made up her mind
                 In favour of the baker;
             And sent him word to say that he
                 Might come next day and take her.
             Away they stole at early dawn:
                 "And now, my pretty puss,"
             Says he, "we'll have a cab." Says she,
                 "No; I prefers a buss."

             They get in one of Shillibeer's,
                 And rode along Fleet Street,
             (So call'd, I am told, because in it
                 You never _can_ go fleet,)
             When "Crikey! here's a pretty start!
                 Vere _are_ you going, miss,
             Vith that ere married man?" sang out
                 The tiger of the 'bus.

             Then Susan gave a shriek, and fell
                 Just like a piece of lumber;
             And Sammy blew the tiger up,
                 And swore he'd take his number.
             And then Sue open'd half an eye,
                 And cried, in accents crack'd,
             "Oh, Sam! how could you guilty be
                 Of such a marriage act?"

             Then Sammy for the Doctor ran—
                 At least he told 'em so.
             He went: but as for coming back,
                 Alas! it was "no go."
             And when at last poor Sue got home,
                 As pale as any lily,
             She found a letter from John Budd:
                 And thus ran Johnny's billy:—

             "I seed you get into the 'bus,
                 To be another's wife:
             And so resolved to go and end
                 My wegetable life.
             I've tuk an ounce of pois'nous stuff;
                 And when these lines you see,
             Dear Susan, I shall be no more—
                 Alas!—

                                                        Your humble B—."

                               JUNE                                [1838


                      THE MARTYRDOM OF ST. PAUL'S.

  Oh, Charity! celestial _dame_!—I cannot call thee _maid_,
  While ev'ry year thy children clear make such a grand parade.
  Ah! 'tis a glorious sight to see thy little pauper brats
  Parade the streets of _Baby_lon like demi-drowned rats.
  Before the sun's begun to run, they're startled from their nest,
  And by their anxious mothers in the parish fin'ry dressed;
  And how those mothers' hearts must leap with gratitude to see
  Their offspring all so nicely clothed in that smart livery!
  The girls all clad in worsted gowns, mob caps, and aprons white,
  Like Lilliputian grandmothers,—a venerable sight:
  The boys in pretty blanket coats of green or brick-dust red,
  With tawny leather breeches, and a thrum cap on their head;
  And then that splendid pewter badge, worth all the rest beside;
  No medal worn by hero could inspire more honest pride.
  While to the neighbours they're a mark of pleasant observation,
  How must their happy mothers bless a parish education!
  It is so very handy too, when in a crowd they're brawling,
  To pick them out so easily, and save a world of bawling.

    Oh! merry day of jubilee to every little sinner,
  When ev'ry one receives a bun and goes without a dinner.
  Ah, happy England! thou'rt indeed a charitable nation,
  Thy charities thou dost without the slightest ostentation;
  How proud it makes a Briton feel to view this glorious sight,
  Tho' some there are too dull to share the exquisite delight.
  I heard a surly cynic once thus vent his angry spleen,
  As he with jaundic'd eye beheld the animated scene:—
  "If this be Christian Charity, who loves abroad to roam,
  "I wish, instead of coming here, that she had stay'd at home.
  "I'm sure she has no feeling for those wretched little dears,
  "Or she'd not make them into jam all in that place of _tiers_.
  "Whate'er Sir Robert Peel may say, or Tory folks may shout,
  "I'm sure the 'pressure' from within is worse than that 'without.'
  "But little girls may swoon away, and little boys may bawl,
  "None, in this age of intellect, now care for a _child's call_.
  "The cannibals, who eat up folks, have always made a point
  "To kill their two legg'd animals before they dress'd a joint;
  "But Christian anthropophagites possess a nicer goût,
  "And cook their flesh alive whene'er they make a human stew."
  Thus did he snarl and grumble at this glorious institution;
  Some enemy he must have been to Britain's constitution,
  For he who'd seek to work a change by pleading for humanity,
  Must either be disloyal or the victim of insanity.

[Illustration:

  JUNE.—"The Queen's Own."
]


                           PROCLAMATION DAY.

                  Hip! hip! hurrah!
                  What a glorious day!
                  They're proclaiming the Queen—
                  Magnificent scene!
                  Look—there sits the Mayor!
                  That's his worship, I'll swear.
                  The bells are clanging;
                  The cannons are banging;
                  The big drums are playing;
                  The trumpets are braying;
                  The cymbals are ringing;
                  The people are singing,
                  "Victoria victorious,
                  Happy and glorious.
                  Long-to-reign-orious."
                  The Guards are advancing,
                  Kicking and prancing.
                  First the videttes
                  On their chargers—such pets!
                  Then comes the horse-doctor,
                  As grave as a proctor:
                  Then four pioneers,
                  With their axes—such dears!
                  And as sharp, ay, as needles.
                  And then come the beadles
                  (Messieurs Tomkins and Startin)
                  Of St. James and St. Martin.
                  After them the Guards' band,
                  So fierce and so grand.
                  The Marshals march next,
                  With their tits much perplex'd.
                  Then the Sergeants-at-Arms,
                  Looking full of alarms;
                  And the Heralds, whose dresses
                  Get in terrible messes.
                  Her Majesty's Garter
                  Comes figuring _arter_,
                  With his splendid gold tabard,
                  And sword in his scabbard;
                  And behind him is sergeants,
                  Who to-day think they _are_ gents.
                  While the Horse-guards appear
                  To bring up the rear.
                    But let's change the scene a bit;
                  And look at the Queen a bit,
                  Giving audience to all,
                  Great, middling, and small.
                  Among the paraders
                  Are the royalty traders:
                  Her Majesty's hatter,
                  Gunsmith, and cravatter,
                  Royal builders of britchkas,
                  Brutus wigs, and false whiskers.
                  The Queen's top-boot maker,
                  And her "own undertaker,"
                  Who says, with much fervour,
                  He'll be "happy to serve her."
                    Then at night, what a sight,
                  When the lamps are a-light,
                  Green, red, blue, and white;
                  And transparencies bright
                  Shine from attic to floor—
                  There's a thousand or more.
                  In every street
                  Blazing lions you meet;
                  And, in letters of flame,
                  VICTORIA'S dear name.
                  But see! there's a row
                  In the Poultry, I vow!
                  The windows are smashing,
                  The shutters go dash in:
                  The mob's in a rage
                  With poor Mister Page;
                  Whose luminous star,
                  With a "W. R."
                  Has excited their wonder,
                  And raised all this thunder.
                  See! Page now, in tears,
                  At the window appears;
                  And, with uplifted hands,
                  Their pleasure demands.
                  "Shame! radical! traitor!
                  Wretch! spy! agitator!"
                  Are the sounds that arise:
                  And at last some one cries,
                  "What means 'W. R.'
                  A-top of your star?"
                  "Lawk! is that all?" cries Page,
                  Almost bursting with rage,
                  "Why, confound your necks!
                  It's 'WICTORIA REX!'"

[Illustration:

  JULY.—Flying Showers.
]

                               JULY                                [1838


                         RAIL-ROAD TRAVELLING.

 I vow I'll go, and it shall be so, and I've said it, Mister Snip,—
 This very day, come what come may, I'll have my railway trip.
 There's Mistress King has been to Tring, and thinks herself so knowing—
 I'm tired of waiting your debating, and it's time that we were going.

Well, Duck, though I never did dabble in foreign parts,—Law, Ma! how I
shall squeal when the engine starts.——For shame, child! as to fear it's
nothing but a notion;—I declare I always feel the better for a little
motion.——Pray, mister, do you call this a first-class carriage because
it goes double fast?—No, ma'am, it's because we puts it behind, to be
blow'd up last.——See, they're pulling us along with a rope! very odd,
upon my word.—Vy, you carnt expect the hingins to go on their own
ac-cord.——But just look round at Hampstead and Highgate, while they
slacken their pace,—And see, they hook on the loco-motive! What's that,
Pa? A thing they've a motive for hooking on at this place.——Here's Chalk
Farm, where some run down a hill, and some run up a score!—And there's
the famous tunnel! It looks like a bit of a bore.——Oh, dear! Oh, dear!
how dreadful dark! I think I'm going to die,—And I'm so hot I can't say
my prayers! but here's the light of the sky.——See what a hole in my
parasole, burnt by a red-hot spark!—I only wish I knew who it was that
was kissing me in the dark.——Sare! I vonder, Sare! ven dey vill put on
de horses to draw!—Oh! horses don't draw here; they're all _hors
d'emploi_.——But how the hedges run past, and the trees and the bridges,
and the posts, and the cattle, and the people!—This is just like
ploughing the air! Yes, and there goes Harrow Steeple.——On, on we spin,
with a clack and a din, like a mighty courser snorting, blowing.—Well,
how do you like the railroad now? Oh! I think it's the wonderful'st
thing that's going.——Ladies, here's Watford; we can stop if you've had
enough of your ride.—But perhaps you'd rather go on; there's a long
tunnel on the other side.——Oh! I'm so frighted at the thought I can
scarcely speak!—Gracious! I'm so delighted! I hope we shall stay in for
a week.——Well, if that's the case, as you came out for a little
pleasure, I shall leave you at the tunnel, and you can go through at
your leisure.

20 Professor Playfair d. 1819.

[Illustration]

                          Thimble-rig Jubilee.

28 Infernal Machine in France, 1835.

[Illustration]

                        Ditto ditto in England ☞


                          THAT MISTER NUBIBUS.

Reader, _my_ name's Nubibus. I am "that Romeo." My ruling passion is a
taste for the rurals. My love of green fields may be almost termed a
green sickness. You may talk of your ottomans and your fauteuils, _I_
never sit so easy as in a rustic chair. But, unhappily, my pleasure is
not without a damper. The rain is my most mortal foe: my skies are
always cloudy: my trees are continually on the drip: my Pan is always a
Watering Pan. At the moment of my birth, even, it was observed that the
watchman was going his rounds and crying, "Past four o'clock, and a
rainy morning:" and many of my best friends think it likely that my last
days will be accompanied by a drop.

Last Friday was a notable instance of my unluck. The morning was most
beautiful—sun shining, birds singing, weather-glass down at _Stormy_,
and Moore's Almanack at _Heavy Rain_—everything, in short, promised a
fine day; and I immediately dressed myself in my most summery attire,
and set off to join Mrs. Timon Duggins's pic-nic party to Battersea
Fields. I found all the company already assembled in her little parlour,
in Greek Street, Soho, and I could hear them greet my arrival with, "Oh!
here's _that_ Mr. Nubibus! we're sure to have rain if he comes."
However, I took no notice of their impertinences, but calmly brushed the
dust off my gossamer pumps, to show that I had no fear on my own
account: tho', sooth to say, I had taken care not to come without my old
friend, my walking-stick umbrella. Well, off we set, took boat at
Hungerford Stairs, and reached our place of destination without
misadventure. Miss Arabella Dix was the first lady to land, which she
did by stepping into a squashy place among the rushes, from which she
came out with an abundant supply of mud and water, and not without an
angry look at me, as much as to say, "Ay, it's all thro' _that_ Mr.
Nubibus!" But this was not the worst. Gallantry forbade that Miss
Arabella should remain in her unfortunate dampness while there were so
many dry gentlemen in company: and, as it unluckily turned out that mine
was the only small foot of the party, I was obliged to give up my dry
pumps to Miss Arabella; tho' I own it went to my very _sole_ to do so.

"Oh! how I _do_ love the country!" exclaimed Miss Arabella, as soon as
she had established herself in my dry shoes; "the sky, the water, the
trees, how delightful!" I felt as if I could have hugged her. My taste
to a T.

"And there! there's a spectacle! that lovely _rainbow_!" I felt as if I
could have committed homicide upon the provoking creature, and clenched
my walking-stick umbrella with the force of a maniac. On came the
rainbow; clap went the thunder; down poured the rain—cats and dogs,
puppies and _kitlings_. All eyes were turned upon me reproachfully. Up
went umbrellas and parasols; out came cloaks and Mackintoshes. An air of
triumph seemed to pervade the company as they remarked that there were
no means of shelter left for me. I let them enjoy their triumph for a
while, and then I quietly unscrewed the top of my walking-stick
umbrella. My walking-stick umbrella, did I say? Alas! I had brought my
bamboo telescope instead.

Young Ariel Hicks, a young gentleman of fifteen years of age, and as
many stones weight, now offered me a share of his parapluie; but, as
Hicks was only four feet two inches in height, and I stood five feet ten
in my shoes (or rather, in Miss Arabella's), I was soon tired of doing
penance in the form of a letter S, and boldly declared my utter contempt
for all kinds of showers, and thunder-showers in particular. What made
our situation still more provoking, was the presence of an opposition
pic-nic party in the adjoining field, cosily enjoying themselves under a
waterproof tent, from the entrance of which a grinning face would every
now and then peep out, evidently in high glee at our miserable
appearance. The weather getting clear, it was proposed to have a ramble
among the green trees: but the Dryads and Hamadryads turning out to be
anything but what their name imported, we were glad to escape from their
dripping bowers with all possible speed. Hungry as wolves, and shivering
with cold, we now addressed ourselves to Mrs. Timon Duggins, who had
undertaken to be purveyor to the whole party. Mrs. Timon Duggins was as
hungry as we. But where was "Mr. Gunterses young man?—Mr. Gunterses
young man, that she (Mrs. D.) had ordered to be on the ground punctually
at two o'clock?" Echo, and several of the young ladies and gentlemen
answered "Where?" But still Mr. Gunter's young man appeared not. At last
Mrs. Timon Duggins, employing one end of her spectacles as an eye-glass,
exclaimed, "Why, there he is!" and there, sure enough, we saw him,
standing with his baskets on his arm, watching the departure of the
rival party, who were merrily sailing down the river to the tune of the
Canadian Boat Song, sung by the whole strength of the company. The young
jackal was soon summoned, and bid to spread the repast: but what was our
horror on learning that he had mistaken the rival party for ours, and
suffered them to eat up all our provisions. Half dead with cold and
hunger, we turned the baskets inside out: but nothing was left except a
few ices and a bottle or two of ginger-beer!

By great good fortune one of the Twickenham steamers was just then going
by, and as Ariel Hicks, who was an amateur sailor, had some acquaintance
with the skipper, he succeeded in procuring us some prog from the
vessel. We had scarcely got our knives and forks well fixed in it,
however, when the rain again began to fall in torrents, and we were glad
to get away to our boats and Mackintoshes. Our voyage home was not less
disastrous. The boat had been filled to about ankle deep by the late
heavy rains, and we were obliged to sit all the way with our feet held
up above high-water mark—except those who thought proper to put them in
the wet _by way of relief_.

The next morning there was but one answer to all inquiries—"Our
compliments, and we're very ill in bed of colds and rheumatisms; and
it's all owing to _that_ Mister Nubibus."

                              AUGUST                               [1838


                             CHEAP BATHING

[Sidenote: Now the Dog Days have begun, ten times hotter is the Sun. If,
           in walking Regent Street, crowds of puppies you should meet,
           do not kick the harm- less things, but recollect what
           Shakspeare sings, recollect the ancient say, every dog shall
           have his day.]

 I scorn the rules of Fashion's fools, their scoffings and their sneers,
 To the ocean spray I haste away from people and from piers.
 I love to ride in the flowing tide 'mid the summer's gentle gales,
 And to seem the monarch of the sea, or at least the Prince of Whales.
 Like porpoise brave, in the briny wave, I flounder and I flirt,
 And now I stand upon the land—Oh, murder! where's my shirt?
 Yes, there it goes, and all my clothes—stay, sacrilegious wretches!
 Take coat and hat, and black cravat, but give me back my breeches!
 This is the spite of Mistress White—the foulest in the Nation—
 Because I scouted her machine; it is her machination.
 But, hark! I hear, there's some one near—in vain I hope to hide;
 They'll say I'm not a tidy man, for going in the tide.
 Oh! dire disgrace! I'll screen my face behind this fisher's basket,
 And those who do not know my name, I hope wont stop to ask it!

16 Andrew Marvel d. 1678. No wonder.

   Joe Miller d. 1738. No joke.

18 Rebel Lords beheaded, 1746.

              Treason doth never prosper—what's the reason?
              Why, when it prospers, none dare call it treason.

22 Gall d. 1828.

     Never suffer a phrenologist to pass judgment on your head, or,
    ten to one, you may hear something unpleasant.

[Illustration:

  No occasion to move.
]

[Illustration:

  A move on occasion.
]

  Pray, Ma'am, can you move ever such a little scrinch? Indeed, Marm,
its quite unpossable for me to stir an inch.—Well, if I'd stay'd at
Dorking I should have sat more at my ease, but I thought it best to
leave such a nest, for we're all swarming alive with fleas.—Then I'll
take my leave, Marm, to shift a little further from where you are
sittin', for though I don't like to be crushed, I don't choose to be
bitten.

[Illustration:

  AUGUST.—"Sic Omnes."
]


                              PLEASURING.

  _Miss Henrietta Julia Wiggins, on her Travels, to Miss Adelaide
    Theresa Ditto, in Bucklersbury. With a short Postscript from
    Mamma, and another from Papa._

"_Ma chère Sœur_—According to promise, I now send you the journal of my
tour; but, _hélas!_ if you expect it has been a happy one, you _trompez_
yourself most sadly. _Mon dieu!_ the sufferings we have undergone! _Mais
voilà_ the journal.

"MONDAY, SEPT. 1.—Embarked on board the "Emerald" steamer at London
Bridge for Boulogne, at one o'clock in the morning, after having passed
a miserable night in packing up, and trying to go to sleep in easy
chairs. Pa complaining of symptoms of lumbago.—All the berths taken,
mostly by gentlemen—or rather, by monsters in the form of gentlemen.
_Mon dieu!_ what brutes the English men are! to suffer us poor helpless
_femelles_ to pass the night on deck, while they are snoring away
comfortably in the cabins! Ma's blue silk pelisse was soon put _hors de
combat_ by the nasty tar and stuff, and my new French-white bonnet was
turned into a regular London smoke in ten minutes by the horrid
chimney.—Ma has made the acquaintance of a very nice _Dame Française_,
who speaks pretty good English, and abounds in anecdotes about _la
grande nation_. Also, has kindly taken charge of one of Ma's _sacs de
nuit_; as she says the French _douaniers_ won't allow people to land
more than one carpet-bag a-piece, and Ma not choosing to leave her
valuables at the mercy of those _vilains bêtes_, the custom-house
officers. _Moi aussi, j'ai fait connaissance_ with a charming fellow,
the _Marquís de Mandeville_, a young _militaire_, in black moustaches
and a green foraging cap.—Marquis beginning to make himself very
agreeable; in fact, becoming quite _amoureux_, when both taken suddenly
ill, and obliged to part. Ah! Adelaide dear! it's a sad change, from
love-sick to sea-sick! French lady very kind, and asked me if I had the
_mal de mere_—thought she meant "my mother's complaint," which you know
is rheumatism in the hips—answered accordingly, and got horribly laughed
at by a lot of rude fellows in make-believe sailors' jackets.—Ma next
attacked—Pa next—_tout le monde_ soon in the same plight. Sensation
dreadful—headache worse and worse—Ma wanted to be set down at Dover, but
Captain wouldn't hear of it. French lady very attentive—_would_ fetch
tumblers of brandy and water for Pa and Ma and me—couldn't drink a drop—
_she_ did, and wasn't sick at all. Obliged to stop my journal—so very
ill.

"TUESDAY, _Boulogne_—Landed here half dead, having lost the tide, and
obliged to pass another night at sea. All very ill. Pa's lumbago
confirmed, and Ma's rheumatism _très mal_.—Unable to go to Paris; and
our places having been paid for all the way, obliged to forfeit the
money; Pa very cross, Ma very uncomfortable. 5 O'CLOCK, P.M.—Pa has just
been in to say that the French lady refuses to give up Ma's _sac de
nuit_, containing all her valuables; and that, as it was landed in her
name, there's no remedy.—A call from Marquis—advises us not to make a
rumpus about it, for fear of being taken up as smugglers. His lordship's
valet not being yet arrived, under the unpleasant necessity of borrowing
five pounds of Pa. Pa very suspicious, until Marquis showed us his
passport, where they have taken him two black eyes, a nose _aquilin_,
black _cheveux_, and five feet three inches of _taille_. Only think,
Adelaide dear! what a picture of a lover!

"WEDNESDAY.—Passed a dreadful night, not having been able to sleep a
wink for the _punaises_. Ma bit all over, and her face as big as two.
_Moi aussi_, my eyes completely swelled up, all but one little corner,
just enough to see what a fright I am in the looking-glass. Unable to
get any assistance from the people at the inn, our _manuel du voyageur_
not containing any dialogue between a chambermaid and a lady bitten by
bugs; and Pauline, Ma's maid, that she hired by advertisement, having
left us the moment we landed, her only motive in engaging herself at all
being to get her passage paid back to her native country.—Can't get
anything that we can eat at the inn, and reduced to sea biscuits and
water. I have again tried to make our wants known to the _fille de
chambre_, but without success, they _do_ speak such very bad French in
the provinces—quite a _patois_, in fact. Hope we shall do better in
Paris.—Marquis called, and recommended Pa to hire a _valet de place_.
Kindly undertook to provide him one, who speaks French and English, and
understands the horrible _patois_ of the Boulognese. This will take a
good deal off my hands, who am obliged to be _interpreteur_ to the whole
party.—_Alexis_, the new _valet de place_, arrives.—Got something
eatable at last, and are to start for Paris _demain matin_.

"THURSDAY.—Up at five. _Déjeûner_, and start for Paris at seven—Marquis
in same _diligence_. Weather dreadfully hot. Rival diligence got the
start, and _will_ keep before us all day, the French laws not allowing
one coach to pass another. Dust dreadful—and worse for us than any of
the rest, as we had taken our seats in front of the _voiture_, for the
sake of seeing the country—and, after all, no country to see. Proposed
to some _gentilhommes_ inside to change places with Ma and me; but met
with a flat refusal. Begin to think French gentlemen are not much more
_poli_ than English ones.—Dined at Abbeville, and arrived at Amiens late
at night, very tired and ill.

"FRIDAY.—Up at five, after a sleepless night. Started at seven. Heat
_comme hier_—dust _ditto_: _two_ diligences before us.—Dined, or rather
_table d'hôte'd_ (which is a very different thing) at Clermont. Didn't
eat an ounce all three of us, but obliged to pay five francs a-piece for
our dinners—and, as we had no francs left, the people kindly consented
to take English shillings instead.—Ma and I quite ill, from heat, and
dust, and fasting, and one thing or another; and Pa's lumbago much worse
since the heavy thunderstorm which soaked thro' his waterproof hat, and
ran off his Mackintosh into his shoes, till they were all of a squash.—
Seeing our distress, three French gentlemen inside kindly consented to
relinquish their seats in our favour, an offer which we gladly accepted.
The French are really polite, _après tout!_—10 O'CLOCK, _à la nuit!_—
Arrived in Paris at the _Hotel de Lyon_, the Marquis very politely
handing us out, and seeing us to our room.—Rather annoyed by Pa's coming
in and kicking up a rumpus about the gentlemen who had taken our paid
places on the _première banquette_, and who had left him to pay for the
three insides all the way from Boulogne.—Marquis very _aimable_, and
gave us all a pressing invitation to pay him a visit at his _château_ in
_La Vendée_.

"SATURDAY.—The Marquis to breakfast.—With his Lordship to the _Jardin
des Plantes_, where we had no sooner arrived among the lions and tigers
than it began to rain cats and dogs. The noble Marquis very kind in
holding the umbrella over him and me, and sending Pa to call a coach at
the neighbouring coach-stand. Pa _très long-tems_ away—at last saw him
coming along in the custody of two _gend'armes_, covered with mud and
dirt, and bleeding profusely. Learned that poor Pa, instead of calling
'_cocher_,' as he ought to have done, had called the man '_cochon_,'
which, you know, means 'pig;' at which the coachman at first laughed;
but Pa persisting in calling him '_cochon_,' he at last got down in a
rage, and attacked Pa most furiously. I am sorry to say, poor Pa got
_terriblement maltraité_. Ma has been in fits ever since, and Pa won't
be able to go out for weeks. _Pour moi_, I am as ill as any one can be—
nothing but the Marquis's kindness keeps me alive...."

"P.S.—SUNDAY.—My dearest child! Your unhappy mother sends you this. Your
deluded sister disappeared last night with the Marquis de Mandevil,
leaving this unfinished letter on her table, and your Pa and me both
heart-broken. I am too ill to write any more.

                                        Your miserable mother,
                                                        BERTHA WIGGINS."

"P.S.—MONDAY.—Dear daughter! Your distressed father sends you this. Your
unhappy mother eloped last night with that villain _Alexis_—and all the
luggage. I have discovered that he and the Marquis are a couple of
sharpers. A pretty week we have made of it!

                                       Your wretched father,
                                                   BARTHOLOMEW WIGGINS."


                          COUNTRY COMMISSIONS.

  "Mr. Hume moved for a list of all Commissions issued between the 1st
  of April, 1833, and the 1st of April, 1837, and of the expenses
  incurred thereon."

                                             _Parliamentary Register._

             Twenty times have I taken my pen,
                 And began my dear Julia's name,
             Twenty times have I dropped it again,
                 For I'm burning all over with shame.

             How lucky I am to possess
                 A kind friend to rely on, like you!
             And—'tis shocking—I'm bound to confess
                 That my billets are all billets-_do_.

             But to come to the point, dearest dear,—
                 Your affection will pardon it all—
             You must know, the long thread of our year
                 Is wound up by an annual ball.

             Only think! in this dismal abode
                 To have nothing that's stylish or new!
             We are centuries out of the mode,
                 Though we live in _a manor_, 'tis true.

             And I want a few trifles in haste;
                 'Tis too bad—for you've plenty to do—
             But I know you've such excellent taste,
                 And I'll leave it entirely to you.

             So get me, from Waterloo Place,
                 (What you pay I shall never regard)
             Twenty yards of the best Brussels lace,
                 At exactly two guineas a yard.

             From Harding's twelve yards of French satin,
                 That beautiful pearly-white hue—
             'Tis a matter, I know, that you're pat in,
                 So I'll leave it entirely to you.

             Of course, there can be no objection
                 To make it a bargain quite plain,
             That if it don't suit my complexion
                 You'll trouble them with it again.

             Five bouquets of roses from Foster's,
                 And a circlet of white Maraboût—
             (I consider all others' impostors,
                 But I leave that entirely to you.)

             _Un oiseau paradis_ may be sent
                 To surmount a _chapeau paille de riz_
             For mamma—for she's never content—
                 How different, dear Julia, from me!

             There is but one man in the town,
                 Who can make me a white satin shoe;
             Do find him, and send me some down,
                 So I'll leave it entirely to you.

             Oh! a scarf I shall want, by-the-bye,
                 Of that very particular hue
             Which belongs to "the Seraph's blue eye,"
                 (In dear Moore,) so I leave it to you.

             And now I'm equipped for my jig,
                 I'll finish my begging petition—
             (Pa says I'm as bad as a Whig;
                 Such a dab to get up a commission.)

             But I'll thank you to buy, for Miss Green
                 A nice little stone and a muller;
             And just paper enough for a screen—
                 Every sheet of a different colour.

             Here's a note for Miss White at the Tower;
                 You must take it some day before two,
             For she always goes out at that hour,
                 So I leave it entirely to you.

             If it's all in your way coming back,
                 Just call at the Grove, Kentish Town,
             And look in at the school of young Black—
                 His mamma wants to know if he's grown.

             And next summer, when Pa comes to town,
                 He shall pay you whatever is due,
             If you'll send the particulars down;
                 But I'll leave that entirely to you.

[Illustration:

  SEPTEMBER.—Michaelmas Gander.
]

 1830.]                            SEPTEMBER.

[Illustration]

       1 St. Giles. The faithful Scroggins lifted to the skies,
                    A _consternation_ in his Molly's eyes.

6. Stratford Jubilee, 1769.

  "Mother! mother! take in the clothes: here be the players a-coming!"


                          THE HARVEST SUPPER.

              The latest load from the field is come,
            "Hip! Hip! Hip! for the Harvest Home!"
            The guests they throng to the feast in swarms,
            More men than manners, more chairs than forms;
            And 'twould puzzle a lawyer here to point,
            And prove that the times are _out of joint_.

              I love fat _fowls_ in a bill of _fare_,
            Yet this for ever I will declare,
            That the dish, however it may be scorned,
            For a harvest supper is beef that's corned.

              I love a dame of the good old sort,
            The piano not her only forte,
            Her sons, who something know beside
            To break a pointer, drink, and ride;
            And daughters, who return from school,
            To feed the pullets, not dance _la poule_.

              There are some that gather, who do not grow,
            And some that reap, who are but _sow-sow_,
            But the honest farmer, blunt and plain,
            Who has never learned to drink champagne
            (Like some, or else I'm much mistaken,
            Who pinch the poor to save their bacon),
            May plenty crown his peaceful dome,
            And "Hip! Hip! Hip! for his Harvest Home."

15 Newspaper Stamp Duty reduced, 1836.

                  Chancellor of the Exchequer brought to his last penny.

29 Michaelmas Day. De _Goostibus_ non est disputandum.


                         ÀPROPOS OF THE GOOSE.

           "Dear Uncle, accept our best thanks
               For your very nice Michaelmas treat;
           Such a beautiful bird I ne'er saw,—
               So tender! so young! and so sweet!
           My wife and myself both declare,
               Since we tied the hymeneal noose,
           We never before clapp'd our eyes
               On so fine—so delicious a goose!

           "The brats are all well. Little Sam
               Is a Solomon quite for his age:
           Such a mimic! We've serious thoughts
               Of bringing him up to the stage.
           He already takes off you and aunt,
               Her way of exclaiming "The dooce!"
           He can imitate cocks, hens, and ducks,
               _Àpropos_, many thanks for the goose.

           "Our eldest we've christened at last,
               After you and my uncles at York,—
           John James Paul Ralph George Job Giles Mark:
               And Eliza's beginning to talk.
           Little Arthur has lost a front tooth,
               And another is getting quite loose:
           They both want to know when you'll come;
               And thank you, dear Sir, for the goose.

           "Little Hal's as like _you_ as two peas,—
               So lively, so smart, and so jaunty!
           And dear little Emily Ann
               Is grown quite the moral of aunty.
           Selina's translating in French
               The voyage of Mister Pérouse;
           And Amelia has knit you a purse;
             And thank you, dear Sir, for the goose.

           "Little Ellen's begun to _sol-fa_,
               And her master, the Chevalier Bäûll,
           Declares that he never yet heard
               Child sing so exceedingly small.
           Little Tom's quite a sportsman become;
               He has caught a young hare in a noose,
           And sends you the skin to have stuff'd:
               And thank you, dear Sir, for the goose.

           "Your godson's beginning to draw,—
               You remember the rogue—little Mike?
           He has chalk'd you and aunt on the wall;
               And really they're laughably like.
           Such spirits I never yet saw;
               He's just like a tiger let loose:
           And Sue means to work you a screen,
               And thank you, dear Sir, for the goose.

           "Your museum, I hope, goes on well:
               But, Uncle, take care of your eyes;
           And pray don't, with microscopes, look
               So much at those very small flies.
           I send you the horn of a deer,
               (I believe it's a species of moose,)
           And the quill of a real black swan;
               And thank you, dear Sir, for the goose.

           "I hope you ride out ev'ry day;
               It's the first thing on earth for the health,
           Without which, as I've oft heard you say,
               What's honours, and station, and wealth?
           But, dear Uncle, pray never more mount,
               That wild thing you bought of Lord Roos:
           But you are so exceedingly bold!
               Did I thank you before for the goose?

           "_P.S._—Could you lend me ten pounds
               Till Christmas? My lease is just out,
           And I've no one to fly to but you:
               Dear Sir—By-the-bye, how's your gout?—
           The int'rest of course I shall pay,
               Five per cent.—Is your cough getting loose?—
           You can send it per post—and, dear Nunks,
               Many thanks for that duck of a goose."

                             OCTOBER.                              [1838

[Illustration:

  Messuages delivered.
]

1 London Parcels Delivery Comp. estab. 1837.


                        TRIUMPH OF TEE-TOTALISM.

 DERE FRIND,

I rite to inform you our caws is quite the top of the tree in these
parts, nerely all the publicks is ruined and shut up quite private, the
checkers is xchecker'd—the baileaves is in at the rosemary bush—and
there's not a sole to shak ands at the Salitation—nothing but whimpering
at the whine waultz, instead of dancing and tostication so the wendors
of spirits is quite dispirited and at the hintermedihate nobody wont go
to be drunk on the premises. Our parson hoo nose the sin of spiritual
lickers as inroled isself and some of the jentry as hates gin as jined
us, the sqwire too sais he will sine and sail with us as long as he
dosnt go out of site of port. We holds quite a strong meeting weakly but
drinks nothing but Tee total and as abolisht XX intire and marches quite
connubial together round the pump to the tune of Andle's water music but
we as now less occasion for the spout and shall soon dew altogether
without my unkle which is a relashun you will be glad to hear for as we
have left off our cups we have less need of the balls, but I am sorey to
sea all our happytites is sadly hincreased witch is wery detrimental and
hilconvenent at this critearyon of the ear. We was extorted last weakly
meeting by a new member a norrid drunkerd but now quite a reform
carrikter sins his money was all gone and nobody wont trust him. His
discoors was quite headyfying for he is a tailer and goos about in the
good cawse since he left off gozzling. Before he jined us he was alwise
stupid drunk and beatin his wif and now he never gives his mind to
licker. Just at the beginning he was quite affecting and could not get
on without a go of brandy which we thought very rum. He as given up his
trade witch was his sole dependanse sinse he lost all his plaices and
know dout he will be trew to us til somthink else befalse. Dere frind
thease is the first Hoctober as we as passed without a brewin witch it
looks rayther brown but hope to bear it—and we are getting quite
hammerous of our tease witch at first was very tormenting but now the
slow leaves goes off as fast as gunpowder and them, has as gardings
makes the how-queer mixter, but I am afeard I'm a bit of a bore as the
learned pig sed and so conclood

                                      Dere frind affeckshionately

                                                       TOBIAS PUMPSWILL.

[Illustration]

 25 St. Crispin's Day.

   "Wanted, a Closer."

[Illustration:

  OCTOBER.—Battle of A gin·court. (Petty France)
]


                JOE COSE IN LONDON TO PHŒBE BUTTERCUP IN
                              THE COUNTRY.

"O deer Feby sich a plase lunnun is yew Havent got a singl hidear i only
wish yew was Hear yew wood sune hav al the tethe Stole out off yewr hed
ass for sites Bles yewr week ize i hav sea evry think & havent had no
time for Nothink only luvving yew & Sory yew rote them 4 ubbrading
ninepeny leters wich rely doant Bleav as yewr Makeing me a pressant of
the Kichin sithers at parting has Bean abl to Cut our luv in 2 O deerist
Feby the sithers must be verry Sharp grun indede ass cood Severe sich
luv ass ourn i hav bean to the Tip top of St palls & Drunk my share off
2 botls off wisky inside the bal wich is quite a rume But must confes i
nevver was in sich a Bal rume in al my life the vew is rely Wunderfull
nevver sea so much smoak togethar in al my Days allso hav bean to sea
the lions in the towr wich their is no sich thing to be Seen & the same
of the brittish mewseam wear i was Told i shood sea al sorts of Live
creturs but turnt out nothink but Stuff allso hav Bean to doory lane &
Comon Gardn & my i Feby sich hacting & singing Fillips partickler tawk
of Garick i am sur he is ass Depe as Garick & mister Brayam sings Deper
& deper stil allso hav Bean lukky anuff to sa the yung quean wich deer
Feby she is no moor Like a quean then yew ar namely insted of a crown on
her hed ass she orts to hav her Rial hiniss had nothink but a comon
Bonit & insted of a septer in her and nothink but a Grene silk parrysawl
only Think Feby of ruleing a nashun like Grate briton with a grene silk
parrysawl allso hav ad a intervew with the duk of Welinton wich insted
off Bean the Grate ero they giv him out to be is quite a Litel chap &
deerest Feby cood Lik him my self & stand of 1 leg then theirs the parks
ide Park St jamess & Regency park lately Threw open to the publik wich
is a grate advarntige in regard of meting nuss mades wich ide Park &
kensinton gardns was rely geting so Low did i tel yew befour of the stem
pakits on the rivver they ar al as one as stage coches namely going upon
weels & Carying inside & out pasingers only insted of osses is Drawd
alung by nothink but Chimblys to be Short with yew i hav sea allmost
evrythink But not yet ad the plessure off Bean pressant at a Dredfull
fire tho they was 6 ouzes Burnt only a strete of last tewsdy nite & a
hold gentel man Jumt out off a 2 pare off stares windy on to a Pattant
air fetherbed only unfortynat the made forgot to Blo it up in the mornin
and consiquensialy the hold gemman insted off Braking his fal only Broke
2 off his ribs i was lukky anuff to sea a yung wumman Drownded in the
sirpintine wich she wood hav Savd her life if it hadent Bean for 1 off
the umain sasietys men Geting intangld in her petty cotes & keping her
hed too lung under Warter allso sea a hold wumman nokt Down by a noo
polease & 3 men kild by Safety cabs to say nothink off hacksidents by
homini-bus wich is no wunder seaing the number they Cary wich yew no
Siting down 13 is unlukkines itself allso Bean pressant at a Dredfull
drunken row in a coart in pety france wich master and me Geting into the
Coart end we was quite jamd in & in Devvaring to cut our Lukky receevd
sevral Unlukky blos but at last the noo polease Arivd & evry Sole tuk to
his Eels & as master laffably sed insted off the Batl of a Gin court
turnt out the Batl of Runnymede but deerest Feby doant Bleav in the midl
off al this plessuring nayther master nor me is appy in lunnun i asure
yew we ar quite Contrayry & artily Repent as evver we Consentid to becum
parliment men for West stafordsheer wich befour we was hindipendant
members we cood Do ass we likt But now just Revers & ar quite tide by
our 4 legs master as Bean admitd at crokfuds a notoryus hel but poor
feller he finds hisself quite out off his Hellyment & indede boath him &
me is quite at a Los without our old friends the Cows & shepe & yew &
missis & al the rest off the beests ass we hav Bean ust to al our lives
& master is grew quite thin in consequents & Bleav me Feby tho i doant
Take in my waste cotes so menny oles i mis yew quite ass much ass master
missis missis we spend al our Spar time in Smith feeld wich is the only
rele plessure we hav Smith feeld is just the same ass 1 of our own
feelds in West stafordsheer only no gras nor no eges nor no riks of hay
nor no Stiles to sit a coartin on But ful of orses & cows & carves &
pigs & shepe & other Beestly sites O them deer pigs ow Glad i was to ear
there wel none vices it quite put me in mind of yew & deer Butermilk
villige & i rely cood have Stade a earin them squele al day Lung wich
deerest Feby doant Bleav wat i say about the pigs is al Gammon we hav
got a Bewtifull ous in pel mel & the yung ladys ar verry Gay mis Jewlia
is verry fond off Sowlogical gardning & gos evry day to Studdy the
hannimils at the regency Park allso mis Jawgeny rides out evry mornin on
her pony with James the noo sirvent beind on 1 off the hold coch orses
wich as Bean clipt & his tale Cut thurrow bred for the okasion the
sirvents is al very wel & my duty to yewr farther & ow is yewr sister
Suzn & poor litl nock need Nely & abuv al deerest luv Ows yewr muther
Respecktiv cumps to al yewr old felow sirvents & Pleas exept yewrself
deerest Feby

                                                       from yewr adorabl
                                                               JOE COSE.

P. S. O Feby Feby wear al in a huprore sins Riting my abuv we hav found
out mis Jewlia only went Sowlogical gardning for a xcuse to mete her
luvver & is boath loped away gudnes or rather Badnes nose wear Allso the
same of mis Jawgeny & James the noo sirvent ass i told yew off but Bles
yewr art was no sich thing but only a luvver in disgize & wen we al
thort him a Real lakky turnt out nothink but a Vally de Sham.

                             NOVEMBER                              [1838

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

[Illustration]


                          THE PRAISE OF PUNCH.

        I love thee, PUNCH! with all thy faults and failings,
        Spite of the strait-laced folks and all their railings;
          I love thee in thy state _etherial_,
        Thou grateful compound of strange contradictions!
        Filling the brain with Fancy's vivid fictions:
            Thou castle-building wight!
            Urging Imagination's airy flight;
            Chasing blue devils from their dismal revels;
        Spurning this sombre world of selfish sadness,
        And changing sounds of woe to notes of gladness:
                Call'd by whatever name,
        Rum, Rack, or Toddy,—thou soul without a body!
                Thy welcome is the same.

            I like-_wise_ love thee in thy state _material_,
              Thou merry fellow, PUNCHINELLO!
                Thou chip of an old block!
              Thou wooden god of fun!—practical pun!
                  Thou hearty cock!
            Thou dissipator of Policeman's vapours,
                In whose grim face,
        Ting'd with the blueishness of nothing-to-doishness,
                We oft may trace
          A grin as he beholds thee cut thy capers.

        "Pet of the Petticoats!" lov'd of Servant Maid,
                So neat and staid;
        Who, from the area steps, with furtive eyes,
        Surveys thy antics in a mute surprise;
        Belov'd of Errand Boy! who little cares
        For weighty matters he unconscious bears,
        If PUNCH in all his glory stops his way,
        Tempting the varlet with a priceless play.

        Delight of young and old, of great and small!
          Tho' of each grosser passion thou'rt the slave,
          Albeit thou'rt rake and rogue, and thief and knave,
          Of ev'ry grace and goodness quite bereft,
          With not a virtue to redeem thee left;
        Spite of thy faults, oh, PUNCH! we love thee all!
          And hence thy Wooden Worship dost impart
          A moral sound to every conscious heart:
          Thou show'st us, PUNCH, that we're not over-nice
          When wit and humour are allied to vice.
        But as thy close acquaintance brings hard knocks
                On wooden blocks,—
          So, if we'd 'scape a world of awkward trouble,
          Whene'er in real life we meet thy double
          (And rogues of thews and sinews, flesh and blood,
          Are not so harmless quite as those of wood),
          Let us observe this rule,—this prudent plan—
          _Enjoy the humour, but avoid the man_.


                         AN ADVENTURE OF A GUY.

           In days gone by, ere "George the Third was king,"
           Or men had heard the names of Burke or Swing,
           Lived an old hunks in London's famous city,
           Who had a niece, fair, buxom, wise, and witty.
           And this fair maiden, being past fifteen,
           Had got a lover—young Alonzo Green—
           A youth of goodly parts and handsome mien.
           But, as Alonzo was extremely poor,
           Old hunks had in his face banged-to the door;
           And ever after, that his niece might be
           More safe, he kept her under lock and key.
           But still they corresponded—thro' the means
           Of an old woman who sold herbs and greens:
           And thus the lovers planned to run away,
           And get them married one Gunpowder Day.
           Alonzo was to come disguised as Guy;
           And while the mummers played their mummery,
           A _real_ Guy was to be deftly placed
           Within the chair, while he ran off in haste
           To hide him till old hunks was fast asleep;
           When thro' the garden window they could creep,
           And, down a silken ladder gently gliding,
           Soon find some happy bower for love to hide in.

             So said, so done (in those days men would vie
           Who best should entertain the loyal Guy:
           All else got mobbed as friends of popery):
           The mummers were admitted, Guys exchanged,
           And everything was done as pre-arranged.

             Now all is still: old hunks locks up the house:
           Alonzo lies as quiet as a mouse:
           When lo! he hears a step upon the floor—
           And then, old hunks arrives—and locks the door.


[Illustration:

  The Gunpowder Plot or Guys in Council.
]

            The fact was this: a rival of our swain,
          Who'd tried to win the niece's heart in vain,
          Had bribed a mummer to reveal the plot,
          Which thus to the old hunks's ears had got.
          Now to the maiden's room the grey-beard flies,
          And, deaf to all her prayers, and tears, and sighs,
          Bids her prepare for instantaneous flight:
          A coach will come for her that very night.
          Even as he speaks, she hears the horrid wheels:
          And down the stairs her hated guardian steals.

            Just then the _rival swain_ resolved to try
          If he, in semblance of another Guy,
          Cannot induce the maid with him to fly;
          Hastes to her room, softly the window opes,
          And then lets fall his ladder of silk ropes.
          The maid deceived, his rashness gently chides,
          Then down the silken ladder nimbly glides.

            Meanwhile, Alonzo, finding himself trapped,
          Without a notion how the thing had happ'd,
          Opens _his_ window, down _his_ ladder slips,
          And straightway to his lady's casement trips.
          What is his wonder when his rival's ropes
          He sees! What are his joys, his fears, his hopes,
          When at the window he discerns his bride,
          And sees her down the ladder safely glide!
          All this, of course, is on the garden side.
          In front, old hunks has settled all his schemes:
          Of hate, and vengeance now he only dreams.
          Bursting with rage and spite, he mounts the stair,
          And rushes to the chamber of the fair—
          But only finds Alonzo's rival there,
          Who, anxiously is thro' the casement bending,
          Preparatory to his safe descending.

            "What do I see?" is now old hunks's cry,
          "Gadso! what! that's you, is it, Master Guy?
          There, brave Alonzo—there, my pretty fop!"
          And thro' the window throws him neck and crop.

            Meantime, the lovers have a shelter found,
          Where soon in Hymen's fetters they are bound.
          And long they lived, as kind and fond a pair
          As—wife and husband generally are.

                             DECEMBER                             [1838.


                         HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS.

                           TO SOLON SLY, ESQ.

 MY DEAR SIR,

The approaching vacation devolves on me the pleasing duty of reporting
to you, by the hands of Master Timothy, the general progress of his
studies. In some respects his extraordinary precocity has even exceeded
my wishes. I have directed his reading principally to Biography, and his
ardour has led him to add to my selection the lives of Turpin and Moore
Carew, together with the instructive narratives of the Newgate Calendar.
His progress in penmanship has been so great, that he has not only
written all his own letters, but many for his school-fellows, to which
the versatility of his genius has led him to append their names so
accurately, as to enable him to obtain from their parents, with the help
of the post-boy, a considerable addition to his pocket-money. I have
cleared up a few of these little shades of character, which have been
brought to light, as you will perceive at the foot of my bill. In
Arithmetic, Subtraction has been his favourite rule, as all the drawers
in the house can testify. He has also worked some complicated sums in
Vulgar Fractions, and proved them, by the glazier's bill enclosed. His
skill in Division has also been displayed in his setting all the school
together by the ears. In Composition, his forte is romance and general
fiction; indeed his conversation is of so flowery a nature, as to have
been compared to a wreath of li-lies. At our races he greatly improved
his acquaintance with the Greeks—Late-in, of course, included—and my
servants picked him up at midnight, land-measuring, at length, on the
Turnpike road. He has progressed in Logic, though rather addicted to
strange premises, which may lead to serious conclusions. He has become
an accomplished natural philosopher—his pursuit of Ornithology has led
him to every hen-roost in the village, and all my eggs have been
constantly exhausted in his experiments on suction. During his inquiries
into the nature of animal heat, my favourite cat caught a severe cold,
from which she never recovered, through his turning her out without her
skin, on a frosty night. I have inserted a small item from my surgeon's
bill, for repairs of his companions' noses, damaged by his passion for
Conchology; and a charge, which I fear you will think heavy, for a
skylight, destroyed by Master Timothy's falling through, while crawling
along the parapet on a dark night, to seek some information at my
gardener's daughter's window—an extraordinary instance of the pursuit of
knowledge under difficulties. His decided turn for the belles lettres
has deprived me of two of my best maids; for I have been obliged to
discharge them on suspicion of irregularly participating in his studies,
contrary to the rules of my establishment. As I do not feel competent,
however, to do justice to the education of so talented a youth, I shall
not expect to see Master Timothy again after the holidays.

                          I am, my dear Sir,
                                  Your faithful Servant,
                                                      BARNABUS BOMBRUSH.

 _Birchfield Academy._

[Illustration]

25 Apotheosis of Vauxhall Simpson, 1835.

              The glories of his leg and cane are past:
              He made his bow and cut his stick at last.

[Illustration:

  DECEMBER.—Christmas-eve.
]


                         THE QUEEN IN THE CITY.

 How provoking! such a choking, thick, and yellow fog
 No Turk or Jew would venture to turn out a Christian dog.
 'Tis cruel hard, upon my word, with such a gloomy sky,
 To quit my down for Queen or crown, it looks so winter-lye.
 I'd rather keep me warm within, than go in all this rout,
 For it's not my creed, except in need, to take to "cold without."
 And I cannot see why this should be, nor the reason of it all,
 It's quite a job to dine with Bob and Nabob in Guildhall.
 —"Why, don't you see, her Majesty as yet is but a green one,
 She's heard of city riots, but by chance has never seen one;
 Tho' a king of the land once fear'd the Strand, and said it was full of
    sinners,
 And through Cheapside was afraid to ride, so they went without their
    dinners.
 But see the light is getting bright, and the streets are filled with
    people,
 And pennons gleam, in the morning beam, from turret and from steeple.
 The sound that swells from St. Martin's bells would please O'Connell's
    ear,
 While the Union flag does gaily wag, they're all re-pealers there.
 But now the crush becomes a rush, and the Black and Red Guards fright
    beholders,
 Here comes the Lancers, they're the prancers, and the Blues with their
    broad swords over their shoulders.
 And Temple Bar is the seat of war, and rags the ground bestrew,
 Here's a Sunday hat, and a boy squeezed flat, a purse and a satin shoe.
 Mister soldier! of course you'll make your horse take his foot from off
    my toe.
 I'm on duty, sir, and I dare not stir till I hear the trumpet blow.—
 But we've paid our guineas, and we're not such ninnies as to stand in
    all this riot,—
 Here's a lady dead, for she hangs her head, and seems so very quiet.
 Oh! what a jam, we can scarcely cram our heads within the door;
 I fear you'll find, you must sit behind, since you did not come before.
 Oh! that won't do—we've paid for two—myself, and here's my cousin;
 I'm number twenty—here's room in plenty—why, your window wont hold a
    dozen.
 'Tis a swindling cheat, but we lose the treat while haggling here we
    stand,
 And we'll not submit to be thus bit, if a lawyer's in the land.
 But now stand fast, they come at last, the grooms in their cloth of
    gold,
 And Royal Dukes, you may know by their looks, so thick they can scarce
    be told.
 Here are Silver Sticks, in a coach-and-six, methinks it's rather funny,
 But those sticks are dear, and it's very clear they cost a deal of
    money.
 A coach to carry a stick, indeed, how comical you talk—
 Oh! there's many a stick, with head so thick, that rides when he ought
    to walk.
 But who is that, in the feathers and hat, so gracious she nods her
    head,
 Oh, that's the Queen's Bed-chamber maid. Is her Majesty going to bed?
 Now the best of the fun is just begun, for, prancing, may be seen
 The handsome Common Council men, in their gowns of mazarine,
 And the Sheriffs bold, in their chains of gold, and not disposed to
    quarrel,
 Though one the song of _Moses_ sings, and the other a Christmas
    _Carroll_.
 And each Alderman fat, in his three cock'd hat—so comely, one by one
 They stately ride, with their grooms beside—no doubt, to hold them on.
 'Tis the Mayor, of course, outside a horse, with the sword of state
    before him,
 He looks, in his pride, from side to side. How the 'prentice boys adore
    him!
 Hurrah! Hurrah! she comes this way—stand firm to see her pass!
 Well, what have you seen?—why, not the Queen, but the glare of the
    window glass.
 Oh, I'm going wild! have you seen my child? from above I let him fall.—
 Yes, there he rolls on the people's polls, and he'll soon be at
    Guildhall.
 That little crowd, they scream so loud, it pierces thro' and thro' you;
 It's all the charity girls and boys a-singing "Hallelujah,"
 And "Live the Queen"—'tis a lovely scene—did you hear that cracking
    note?—
 'Tis a little lass, in the second class, she's burst her little throat.
 And now the bells ring round again, and the cannon loudly thunder,
 But, before we go, do any know which _was_ the Queen, I wonder?
 _I_ saw the Queen, she was dressed in green, and a gold tiara crown'd
    her.
 No, I rather think, that was her in pink, with the silver all around
    her.—
 In pink or green she never was seen, but she wore a robe of red,
 And she rode a horse, as a thing of course, with a fur cap on her
    head.—
 I think it's plain we shall know her again, so now we'll quit our
    station,
 And we'll take a turn, when the gas-lights burn, to see the
    illumination.
 See crowns and stars, and bright V.R.'s, and wreaths and garlands
    pretty,
 And laurels green all round the Queen, and mottoes quaint and witty.

Here's "Wax and Wick-toria" (_Cowan, in gloria_), "May she long wear her
Crown (_Alderman Brown_), "Ourselves and the Queen" (_Pellatt and
Green_), "She'll ne'er have her match if she reads the _Dispatch_"
(_says that jolly farmer, Alderman Harmer_), "Success to Regina and
Essence of Bina" (_inscription good, by Matthew Wood_), "Long live the
Queen, to drink Black and Green" (_Mr. Twining, in bright lamps
shining_), "None shall dare to affront her" (_Sir Claudius Hunter_), "In
a lot we'll knock down all the foes of the crown" (_a desperate go, by
Farebrother and Co._).

 But none of the sight gave such delight as the Aldermen and the Queen,
 And throughout the land, such spectacles grand will never again be
    seen.

[Illustration]



                                  THE
                             COMIC ALMANACK
                               FOR 1839.


                             JANUARY                               [1839

[Illustration]

[Illustration]


                AL-MANIAC DAY.—A RUSH FOR THE MURPHIES.

        Mysterious Murphy, whose transcendent skill
          Makes hail, rain, vapour,
        Come forth obsequious to your will,—
          At least on paper,—
        Tell us what famous college
        Bestow'd your wondrous knowledge!
        Perchance your learned sconce found it _at once_;
        Perhaps _by degree_ of T.C.D.
        Some say the Prince of Evil has been too civil,
        And that, in change for all your knowledge boasted
        You're doomed—like other murphies—to be roasted.
          Some think, like me for one,
          You've kissed the Blarney Stone;
        But though your blunders make a pretty rout,
          Sure, if you're right, by _second_ sight,
        You well may be, _at first_, a little out.

        But cock your weather eye athwart the sky,
        Of wind and storm disclose your store,
        For one year more,
                  And tell us true.—
        Led by your lies the ships _lie to_,
        Or snugly _arbour'd_, with _bower anchor_ ride,
                  And lose the tide—
        Their funnies near, the watermen look sad,
          Short cut or shag alone their sorrow lulls,
        In sunshine read your page of weather bad,
          And shake their heads, for no one wants their sculls.
        But, sad to think, the washerwoman's pain,
                  Praying for rain,
        And vainly hoping, as for showers she sniffs,
        To fill her _butts_ with your delusive _ifs_.
        Ah, me! I sought the throngs in Beulah's bowers,
          Seduced from home by your _fair_ fiction,
        But found none _out_, amid the drizzling showers,
                  Save my sad self and your prediction.
        Now if again the weather's care you take on,
                  Don't try your flam on,
        But if you wish to save your bacon,
          Give us less gammon.

[Illustration]


                           STUBBS'S CALENDAR;
                                  OR,
                            THE FATAL BOOTS.


                    JANUARY.—THE BIRTH OF THE YEAR.

Some poet has observed, that if any man would write down what has really
happened to him in this mortal life, he would be sure to make a good
book, though he never had met with a single adventure from his birth to
his burial; how much more, then, must I, who _have_ had adventures, most
singular, pathetic, and unparalleled, be able to compile an instructive
and entertaining volume for the use of the public!

I don't mean to say that I have killed lions, or seen the wonders of
travel in the deserts of Arabia or Prussia: or that I have been a very
fashionable character, living with dukes and peeresses, and writing my
recollections of them as the way now is. I never left this my native
isle, nor spoke to a lord (except an Irish one, who had rooms in our
house, and forgot to pay three weeks' lodging and extras); but, as our
immortal bard observes, I have in the course of my existence been so
eaten up by the slugs and harrows of outrageous fortune, and have been
the object of such continual and extraordinary ill-luck, that I believe
it would melt the heart of a mile-stone to read of it—that is, if a
mile-stone had a heart of anything but stone.

Twelve of my adventures, suitable for meditation and perusal during the
twelve months of the year, have been arranged by me for this Almanack.
They contain a part of the history of a great, and, confidently I may
say, a _good_ man. I was not a spendthrift like other men. I never
wronged any man of a shilling, though I am as sharp a fellow at a
bargain as any in Europe. I never injured a fellow-creature; on the
contrary, on several occasions, when injured myself, have shown the most
wonderful forbearance. I come of a tolerably good family; and yet, born
to wealth—of an inoffensive disposition, careful of the money that I
had, and eager to get more, I have been going down hill ever since my
journey of life began, and have been pursued by a complication of
misfortunes such as surely never happened to any man but the unhappy Bob
Stubbs.

Bob Stubbs is my name; and I haven't got a shilling: I have borne the
commission of lieutenant in the service of King George, and am _now_—but
never mind what I am now, for the public will know in a few pages more.
My father was of the Suffolk Stubbses—a well-to-do gentleman of Bungay.
My grandfather had been a respected attorney in that town, and left my
papa a pretty little fortune. I was thus the inheritor of competence,
and ought to be at this moment a gentleman.

My misfortunes may be said to have commenced about a year before my
birth, when my papa, a young fellow pretending to study the law in
London, fell madly in love with Miss Smith, the daughter of a tradesman,
who did not give her a sixpence, and afterwards became bankrupt. My papa
married this Miss Smith and carried her off to the country, where I was
born, in an evil hour for me.

Were I to attempt to describe my early years, you would laugh at me as
an impostor; but the following letter from mamma to a friend after her
marriage, will pretty well show you what a poor foolish creature she
was; and what a reckless extravagant fellow was my other unfortunate
parent.

                  *       *       *       *       *

         _To Miss Eliza Hicks, in Gracechurch Street, London._

O Eliza! your Susan is the happiest girl under heaven! My Thomas is an
angel! not a tall grenadier-like looking fellow, such as I always vowed
I would marry:—on the contrary, he is what the world would call dumpy,
and I hesitate not to confess that his eyes have a cast in them. But
what then? when one of his eyes is fixed on me, and one on my babe, they
are lighted up with an affection which my pen cannot describe, and
which, certainly, was never bestowed upon any woman so strongly as upon
your happy Susan Stubbs.

When he comes home from shooting, or the farm, if you _could_ see dear
Thomas with me and our dear little Bob! as I sit on one knee, and baby
on the other, and as he dances us both about. I often wish that we had
Sir Joshua, or some great painter, to depict the group; for sure it is
the prettiest picture in the whole world, to see three such loving merry
people.

Dear baby is the most lovely little creature that _can possibly be_,—the
very _image_ of papa; he is cutting his teeth, and the delight of
_everybody_. Nurse says, that when he is older, he will get rid of his
squint, and his hair will get a _great deal_ less red. Doctor Bates is
as kind, and skilful, and attentive as we could desire. Think what a
blessing to have had him! Ever since poor baby's birth, it has never had
a day of quiet; and he has been obliged to give it from three to four
doses every week;—how thankful ought we to be that the _dear thing_ is
as well as it is! It got through the measles wonderfully; then it had a
little rash; and then a nasty hooping cough; and then a fever, and
continual pains in its poor little stomach, crying, poor dear child,
from morning till night.

But dear Tom is an excellent nurse; and many and many a night has he had
no sleep, dear man! in consequence of the poor little baby. He walks up
and down with it _for hours_, singing a kind of song (dear fellow, he
has no more voice than a tea-kettle), and bobbing his head backwards and
forwards, and looking, in his night-cap and dressing-gown, _so droll_.
Oh, Eliza! how you would laugh to see him.

We have one of the best nursemaids _in the world_,—an Irishwoman, who is
as fond of baby almost as his mother (but that can _never be_). She
takes it to walk in the Park for hours together, and I really don't know
why Thomas dislikes her. He says she is tipsy very often, and slovenly,
which I cannot conceive;—to be sure, the nurse is sadly dirty, and
sometimes smells very strong of gin.

But what of that? These little drawbacks only make home more pleasant.
When one thinks how many mothers have no nursemaids; how many poor dear
children have no doctors: ought we not to be thankful for Mary Malowney,
and that Dr. Bates's bill is forty-seven pounds? How ill must dear baby
have been, to require so much physic!

But they are a sad expense, these dear babies, after all. Fancy, Eliza,
how much this Mary Malowney costs us. Ten shillings every week; a glass
of brandy or gin at dinner, three pint bottles of Mr. Thrale's best
porter every day,—making twenty-one in a week; and nine hundred and
ninety in the eleven months she has been with us. Then, for baby, there
is Dr. Bates's bill of forty-five guineas, two guineas for christening,
twenty for a grand christening supper and ball (rich Uncle John mortally
offended because he was made godfather, and had to give baby a silver
cup: he has struck Thomas out of his will; and old Mr. Firkin quite as
much hurt because he was _not_ asked: he will not speak to me or John in
consequence); twenty guineas for flannels, laces, little gowns, caps,
napkins, and such baby's ware: and all this out of £300 a year! But
Thomas expects to make _a great deal_ by his farm.

We have got the most charming country-house _you can imagine_; it is
_quite shut in_ by trees, and so retired that, though only thirty miles
from London, the post comes to us but once a week. The roads, it must be
confessed, are execrable: it is winter now, and we are up to our knees
in mud and snow. But oh, Eliza! how happy we are: with Thomas (he has
had a sad attack of rheumatism, dear man!) and little Bobby, and our
kind friend Dr. Bates, who comes so far to see us, I leave you to fancy
that we have a charming merry party, and do not care for all the
gaieties of Ranelagh.

Adieu! dear baby is crying for his mamma: a thousand kisses from your
affectionate

                                                           SUSAN STUBBS.

                  *       *       *       *       *

There it is. Doctor's bills, gentleman-farming, twenty-one pints of
porter a week; in this way my unnatural parents were already robbing me
of my property.

[Illustration]

                             FEBRUARY                              [1839

[Illustration]


               THE DORMANT PEERAGE—APPEALS IN THE LORDS.

                                1 in 10. Fleet Prisn. Fe be wary 9. 1838

 DERE MOLLY,

i am sory to say, in anser to yure lofeing letter, that we are all like
to want bred, for i have gained my law sute quite sattisfactury, witch
it greves me the more that hou tell me the rufe of the cottige is
tumbled in for the lawyers say it is now mine for me and my hares for
ever witch i fere you have all got wet skins, but it is a comfurt i
follered my sute, so you shall here the upshot of my downfal witch is
this—arter the big wig in the big hall had givd it aginst me my lawyers
sed if i had any money left i shud vindickit the law and stand up for my
famley and my rites so with no more seremony sais he ile cary it afore
the lords—so arter a long time it cum to my turn afore all the parlyment
howse—thinks i wen the nobs ears it all the hares of there heds will
stand on end; so i went to the great place were all the lords, as i
thote, was all awating for me, wen dash me if there was but too fat old
fellers aslepe—(i thote i shud see 2 dosin,) and the same judg as eard
about it afore—blest if i arnt done thinks i—so wen my countsillers got
up and told it agen he nodded his hed evry now and then, seemmily to say
its all rite, for my part i cudnt elp crien wen i herd ow ill ide been
used: but eather becos he had a bigger wig on than afore or becos he was
aslepe like the others, he givd it all on my side this time, so my
lawyers sed i was a lucky feller and they wanted sum more mony from me,
but as i ad no more to give em they put me in this plase its calld the
Fleet tho its not a ship board tho they say its very much among the
knavey. But now ime in for it and can't get out unles i can melt the
arts of the lawyers, witch they say is verry ard, xcept by the solvent
act. Won cumfort heres plenty of gude satiety, moastly jentilmen, and
non so bad off as begars and balot singers tho they seem in a staite of
universle sufferige. Dere Molly, if the wals is tumbil'd down its no use
to mind your rexpextabilaty, but think of leafing in the spring for i
fere it will be too hairy for the heds of the children witch they have
always been used to a thatch, and sel the stiks and send me the munny if
its ever so little its ofe yure mind, as i say to miself wen i lye awak
a nites for i cant get no slepe for thinking of yew and the piggs, witch
i wish we wos all in the churchyard for its verry cold and ive no fire
witch is grately dettrementil to my rest. Ive jist eard of a fine plase
cauld the Swan, were i shal hop to get wen i cum out, were theres no law
nor lawyers nor cottiges nor law-sutes nor no nothin but jist the world
afore us to do as we like, and if there's rume ile send for yew and the
children arter. So no moar your affeckshinate husban,

                                                          JILES JOGGINS.

[Illustration:

  An Appeal Case.

  Cold, without.
]

[Illustration:

  "Who are you?"

  Rumi-nation.
]

[Illustration:

  "The Master's Report."

  A _Tail_ of a Chancery Suit.
]


                       FEBRUARY.—CUTTING WEATHER.

I have called this chapter "cutting weather," partly in compliment to
the month of February, and partly in respect of my own misfortunes which
you are going to read about, for I have often thought that January
(which is mostly twelfth cake and holiday time) is like the first four
or five years of a little boy's life; then comes dismal February, and
the working days with it, when chaps begin to look out for themselves,
after the Christmas and the New Year's hey-day and merry-making are
over, which our infancy may well be said to be. Well can I recollect
that bitter first of February, when I first launched out into the world
and appeared at Dr. Swishtail's academy.

I began at school that life of prudence and economy, which I have
carried on ever since. My mother gave me eighteen-pence on setting out
(poor soul! I thought her heart would break as she kissed me, and bade
God bless me); and besides, I had a small capital of my own, which I had
amassed for a year previous. I'll tell you what I used to do. Wherever I
saw six half-pence I took one. If it was asked for, I said I had taken
it, and gave it back;—if it was not missed, I said nothing about it, as
why should I?—those who don't miss their money don't lose their money.
So I had a little private fortune of three shillings, besides mother's
eighteen-pence. At school they called me the copper-merchant, I had such
lots of it.

Now, even at a preparatory school, a well-regulated boy may better
himself: and I can tell you I did. I never was in any quarrels: I never
was very high in the class or very low; but there was no chap so much
respected: and why? _I'd always money._ The other boys spent all their's
in the first day or two, and they gave me plenty of cakes and
barley-sugar then, I can tell you. I'd no need to spend my own money,
for they would insist upon treating me. Well, in a week, when their's
was gone, and they had but their threepence a week to look to for the
rest of the half-year, what did I do? Why, I am proud to say that
three-halfpence out of the threepence a week of almost all the young
gentlemen at Dr. Swishtail's, came into my pocket. Suppose, for
instance, Tom Hicks wanted a slice of gingerbread, who had the money?
Little Bob Stubbs to be sure. "Hicks," I used to say, "_I'll_ buy you
three-halfp'orth of gingerbread, if you'll give me threepence next
Saturday:" and he agreed, and next Saturday came, and he very often
could not pay me more than three-halfpence, then there was the
threepence I was to have _the next_ Saturday. I'll tell you what I did
for a whole half-year:—I lent a chap by the name of Dick Bunting
three-halfpence the first Saturday, for threepence the next; he could
not pay me more than half when Saturday came, and I'm blest if I did not
make him pay me three-halfpence _for three and twenty weeks running_,
making two shillings and tenpence-halfpenny. But he was a sad
dishonourable fellow, Dick Bunting; for, after I'd been so kind to him,
and let him off for three-and-twenty weeks the money he owed me,
holidays came, and threepence he owed me still. Well, according to the
common principles of practice, after six weeks' holidays, he ought to
have paid me exactly sixteen shillings, which was my due. For the

                  First week the 3_d._ would be  6_d._
                  Second week                    1_s._
                  Third week                     2_s._
                  Fourth week                    4_s._
                  Fifth week                     8_s._
                  Sixth week                    16_s._

Nothing could be more just; and yet, will it be believed? when Bunting
came back, he offered me _three-halfpence_! the mean, dishonest
scoundrel!

However, I was even with him, I can tell you.—He spent all his money in
a fortnight, and _then_ I screwed him down! I made him, besides giving
me a penny for a penny, pay me a quarter of his bread and butter at
breakfast, and a quarter of his cheese at supper; and before the
half-year was out, I got from him a silver fruit knife, a box of
compasses, and a very pretty silver-laced waistcoat, in which I went
home as proud as a king: and, what's more, I had no less than three
golden guineas in the pocket of it, besides fifteen shillings, the
knife, and a brass bottle-screw, which I got from another chap. It
wasn't bad interest for twelve shillings, which was all the money I'd
had in the year, was it? Heigh ho! I've often wished that I could get
such a chance again in this wicked world; but men are more avaricious
now than they used to be in those early days.

[Illustration]

Well, I went home in my new waistcoat as fine as a peacock; and when I
gave the bottle-screw to my father, begging him to take it as a token of
my affection for him, my dear mother burst into such a fit of tears as I
never saw, and kissed and hugged me fit to smother me. "Bless him, bless
him," says she, "to think of his old father! And where did you purchase
it, Bob?"—"Why, mother," says I, "I purchased it out of my savings"
(which was as true as the gospel).—When I said this, mother looked round
to father, smiling, although she had tears in her eyes, and she took his
hand, and with her other hand drew me to her. "Is he not a noble boy?"
says she to my father: "and only nine years old!" "Faith!" says my
father, "he _is_ a good lad, Susan. Thank thee, my boy: and here is a
crown piece in return for thy bottle-screw;—it shall open us a bottle of
the very best, too," says my father; and he kept his word. I always was
fond of good wine (though never, from a motive of proper self-denial,
having any in my cellar); and, by Jupiter! on this night I had my little
skin full,—for there was no stinting—so pleased were my dear parents
with the bottle-screw.—The best of it was, it only cost me threepence
originally, which a chap could not pay me.

Seeing this game was such a good one, I became very generous towards my
parents: and a capital way it is to encourage liberality in children. I
gave mamma a very neat brass thimble, and she gave me a half-guinea
piece. Then I gave her a very pretty needle-book, which I made myself
with an ace of spades from a new pack of cards we had, and I got Sally,
our maid, to cover it with a bit of pink satin her mistress had given
her; and I made the leaves of the book, which I vandyked very nicely,
out of a piece of flannel I had had round my neck for a sore throat. It
smelt a little of hartshorn, but it was a beautiful needle-book, and
mamma was so delighted with it, that she went into town, and bought me a
gold-laced hat. Then I bought papa a pretty china tobacco-stopper; but I
am sorry to say of my dear father that he was not so generous as my
mamma or myself, for he only burst out laughing, and did not give me so
much as a half-crown piece, which was the least I expected from him "I
shan't give you anything, Bob, this time," says he; "and I wish, my boy,
you would not make any more such presents,—for, really, they are too
expensive." Expensive, indeed! I hate meanness,—even in a father.

I must tell you about the silver-edged waistcoat which Bunting gave me.
Mamma asked me about it, and I told her the truth,—that it was a present
from one of the boys for my kindness to him. Well, what does she do but
writes back to Dr. Swishtail, when I went to school, thanking him for
his attention to her dear son, and sending a shilling to the good and
grateful little boy who had given me the waistcoat!

"What waistcoat is it?" said the Doctor to me, "and who gave it you?"

"Bunting gave it me, sir," says I.

"Call Bunting:" and up the little ungrateful chap came. Would you
believe it? he burst into tears,—told that the waistcoat had been given
him by his mother, and that he had been forced to give it for a debt to
Copper Merchant, as the nasty little blackguard called me. He then said,
how, for three-halfpence, he had been compelled to pay me three
shillings (the sneak! as if he had been _obliged_ to borrow the
three-halfpence!)—how all the other boys had been swindled (swindled!)
by me in like manner,—and how, with only twelve shillings, I had managed
to scrape together four guineas.

                  *       *       *       *       *

My courage almost fails as I describe the shameful scene that followed.
The boys were called in, my own little account-book was dragged out of
my cupboard, to prove how much I had received from each, and every
farthing of my money was paid back to them. The tyrant took the thirty
shillings that my dear parents had given me, and said that he should put
them into the poor-box at church; and, after having made a long
discourse to the boys about meanness and usury, he said, "Take off your
coat, Mr. Stubbs, and restore Bunting his waistcoat." I did, and stood
without coat and waistcoat in the midst of the nasty, grinning boys. I
was going to put on my coat,—

"Stop," says he, "TAKE DOWN HIS BREECHES!"

Ruthless, brutal villain! Sam Hopkins, the biggest boy, took them down—
horsed me—and _I was flogged, sir_; yes, flogged! Oh, revenge! I, Robert
Stubbs, who had done nothing but what was right, was brutally flogged at
ten years of age.—Though February was the shortest month, I remembered
it long.

                              MARCH.                              [1839.


                             EASTER SUNDAY.

[Sidenote: Secure
           your purse
           when you
           look
           at the
           sky,
           ♊ ♏ ♀ ♄
           Or so much
           the worse
           ☍ ♈ ☽ ♂
           for your
           pro-per-ty.
           [Illustration]
           For some
           there live
           —how
           mel-an-choly!—
           who feed
           ♉ ♒ ♀ ⚹
           and thrive
           by others'
           Folly.]

                   Some people brave the whelming wave,
                   A broiling sun, or a frozen life;
                   Of cutting care I get my share,
                   The horror of The Carving Knife.

                   I wish I was a foreigner,
                   A Hottentot, or a heathen Turk,
                   Or in a poor-law union, where
                   They never want a knife and fork.

                   Before a joint, unhinged, I stand,
                   When call'd on for a fav'rite bit,
                   And surely as I try my hand,
                   So sure I put my foot in it.

                   Folks say I'm not a useful man;
                   Yet, anxious to be serviceable,
                   And do them all the good I can,
                   They learn, with me, to wait at table.

                   Patient as martyr at a stake,
                   I bear the baitings of relations,
                   Who give no quarter, while they make
                   O'er mangled lamb their lamentations.

                   I'm very slow about a brisket;
                   Bacon's a bore—at duck I quake;
                   To cut a pheasant's far from pleasant,
                   And e'en a jelly makes me shake.

                   From leg I'd rather run away;
                   Vain flight of fancy is a wing;
                   A merry thought, I sadly say,
                   To me is a forbidden thing.

                   But cut I will, and that full soon,
                   For some fair land where freedom lingers,
                   Where I can feed me with a spoon,
                   Or, like a Frenchman, use my fingers.

25. Equi-noctial Gales now about.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

       Pray, sir, did you mean that blow in jest?
       No, indeed, sir, I never was more in earnest.
       Oh! I'm very glad of it, for I never put up with a joke.


                            MARCH.—SHOWERY.

When my mamma heard of the treatment of her darling she was for bringing
an action against the schoolmaster, or else for tearing his eyes out
(when, dear soul! she would not have torn the eyes out of a flea, had it
been her own injury), and, at the very least, for having me removed from
the school where I had been so shamefully treated. But papa was stern
for once, and vowed that I had been served quite right, declared that I
should not be removed from the school; and sent old Swishtail a brace of
pheasants for what he called his kindness to me. Of these the old
gentleman invited me to partake, and made a very queer speech at dinner,
as he was cutting them up, about the excellence of my parents, and his
own determination to be _kinder still_ to me, if ever I ventured on such
practices again; so I was obliged to give up my old trade of lending,
for the doctor declared that any boy who borrowed should be flogged, and
any one who _paid_ should be flogged twice as much. There was no
standing against such a prohibition as this, and my little commerce was
ruined.

I was not very high in the school: not having been able to get further
than that dreadful _Propria quæ maribus_ in the Latin grammar, of which,
though I have it by heart even now, I never could understand a syllable—
but, on account of my size, my age, and the prayers of my mother, was
allowed to have the privilege of the bigger boys, and on holidays to
walk about in the town; great dandies we were, too, when we thus went
out. I recollect my costume very well: a thunder-and-lightning coat, a
white waistcoat, embroidered neatly at the pockets, a lace frill, a pair
of knee-breeches, and elegant white cotton or silk stockings. This did
very well, but still I was dissatisfied, I wanted _a pair of boots_.
Three boys in the school had boots—I was mad to have them too.

There was a German bootmaker who had just set up in _our_ town in those
days, who afterwards made his fortune in London; I determined to have
the boots from him, and did not despair, before the end of a year or
two, either to leave the school, when I should not mind his dunning me,
or to screw the money from mamma, and so pay him.

So I called upon this man, Stiffelkind was his name, and he took my
measure for a pair.

"You are a vary young gentleman to wear dop boots," said the shoemaker.

"I suppose, fellow," says I, "that is my business and not yours; either
make the boots or not—but when you speak to a man of my rank, speak
respectfully;" and I poured out a number of oaths, in order to impress
him with a notion of my respectability.

They had the desired effect.—"Stay, sir," says he, "I have a nice littel
pair of dop boots dat I tink will jost do for you," and he produced,
sure enough, the most elegant things I ever saw. "Day were made," said
he, "for de Honourable Mr. Stiffney, of de Gards, but were too small."

"Ah, indeed!" said I, "Stiffney is a relation of mine: and what, you
scoundrel, will you have the impudence to ask for these things?" He
replied, "Three pounds."

"Well," said I, "they are confoundedly dear, but as you will have a long
time to wait for your money, why I shall have my revenge, you see." The
man looked alarmed, and began a speech: "Sare, I cannot let dem go
vidout;"—but a bright thought struck me, and I interrupted—"Sir! don't
sir me—take off the boots, fellow, and, hark ye! when you speak to a
nobleman, don't say—Sir."

"A hundert tousand pardons, my lort," says he: "if I had known you were
a lort, I vood never have called you, Sir. Vat name shall I put down in
my books?"

"Name?—oh! why—LORD CORNWALLIS, to be sure," said I, as I walked off in
the boots.

"And vat shall I do vid my lort's shoes?" "Keep them until I send for
them," said I; and, giving him a patronizing bow, I walked out of the
shop, as the German tied up my shoes in a paper....

This story I would not have told, but that my whole life turned upon
these accursed boots. I walked back to school as proud as a peacock, and
easily succeeded in satisfying the boys as to the manner in which I came
by my new ornaments.

Well, one fatal Monday morning, the blackest of all black-Mondays that
ever I knew—as we were all of us playing between school-hours—I saw a
posse of boys round a stranger, who seemed to be looking out for one of
us—a sudden trembling seized me—I knew it was Stiffelkind: what had
brought him here? He talked loud, and seemed angry—so I rushed into the
school-room, and, burying my head between my hands, began reading for
the dear life.

"I vant Lort Cornvallis," said the horrid bootmaker. "His lortship
belongs, I know, to dis honourable school, for I saw him vid de boys at
church, yesterday."

"Lord who?"

"Vy, Lort Cornvallis, to be sure—a very fat yong nobleman, vid red hair,
he squints a little, and svears dreadfully."

"There's no Lord Cornvallis here," said one—and there was a pause.

"Stop! I have it!" says that odious Bunting. "_It must be Stubbs_;" and
"Stubbs! Stubbs!" every one cried out, while I was so busy at my book as
not to hear a word.

At last, two of the biggest chaps rushed into the school-room, and
seizing each an arm, run me into the play-ground—bolt up against the
shoemaker.

"Dis is my man—I beg your lortship's pardon," says he, "I have brought
your lortship's shoes, vich you left—see, dey have been in dis parcel
ever since you vent avay in my boots."

"Shoes, fellow!" says I, "I never saw your face before;" for I knew
there was nothing for it but brazening it out. "Upon the honour of a
gentleman," said I, turning round to the boys—they hesitated; and if the
trick had turned in my favour, fifty of them would have seized hold of
Stiffelkind, and drubbed him soundly.

"Stop!" says Bunting (hang him!), "let's see the shoes—if they fit him,
why, then, the cobbler's right." They did fit me, and not only that, but
the name of STUBBS was written in them at full length.

"Vat?" said Stiffelkind, "is he not a lort? so help me himmel, I never
did vonce tink of looking at de shoes, which have been lying, ever
since, in dis piece of brown paper;" and then gathering anger as he went
on, thundered out so much of his abuse of me, in his German-English,
that the boys roared with laughter. Swishtail came in in the midst of
the disturbance, and asked what the noise meant.

"It's only Lord Cornwallis, sir," said the boys, "battling with his
shoemaker, about the price of a pair of top-boots."

"O, sir" said I, "it was only in fun that I called myself Lord
Cornwallis."

"In fun! Where are the boots? And you, sir, give me your bill." My
beautiful boots were brought; and Stiffelkind produced his bill. "Lord
Cornwallis to Samuel Stiffelkind, for a pair of boots—four guineas."

"You have been fool enough, sir," says the doctor, looking very stern,
"to let this boy impose upon you as a lord; and knave enough to charge
him double the value of the article you sold him. Take back the boots,
sir, I wont pay a penny of your bill; nor can you get a penny. As for
you, sir, you miserable swindler and cheat, I shall not flog you as I
did before, but I shall send you home: you are not fit to be the
companion of honest boys."

"_Suppose we duck him_ before he goes," piped out a very small voice.
The doctor grinned significantly, and left the school-room; and the boys
knew by this they might have their will. They seized me, and carried me
to the play-ground pump—they pumped upon me until I was half dead, and
the monster, Stiffelkind, stood looking on for the half-hour the
operation lasted.

I suppose the doctor, at last, thought I had had pumping enough, for he
rung the school-bell, and the boys were obliged to leave me; as I got
out of the trough, Stiffelkind was alone with me. "Vell, my lort," says
he, "you have paid _something_ for dese boots, but not all; by Jubider!
_you shall never hear de end of dem_." And I didn't.

[Illustration]

 1839.]                              APRIL.

[Illustration]


              FIRST DAY OF TERM.—_Effects before Causes._

15. Judges breakfast with the Lord Chancellor.

[Illustration:

  +------------+
  | THIS FRONT |
  |   TO  BE   |
  |    SOLD    |
  +------------+
]

            Good judges in the law are they
            Of Sherry, Claret, and Tokay,
            And when their lordships deign to joke,
            And banish Lyttleton and Coke,
            They order that the best old Port
            Shall henceforth be a rule of court;
            That care shall be the fate of asses,
            Their only circuits be of glasses;
            And vow, 'midst clattering peals and thumpers,
            To charge no juries save in bumpers.
            So happy on such TERMS as these,
            They seem a court of common _please_,
            And wish, the toils of life to soften,
            That such RETURNS would come more often.

6. Old Lady Day.

 A learned saw does sagely say, that ancient dames should have their
    day,
 And calendars, 'tis very clear, provide it always once a-year;
 Thus, dearing, sneering, canting, kind, the kiss before, the bite
    behind,
 Fair fames, foul names, and Hyson Tea, all go to pot right merrilie.

 Come, now, I propose we try a rubber.—I'm shocked to hear it, I hope
 he'll drub her; these matches seem such infant's play;—Why, they're
 rather childish, but it wont do to throw a chance away,—And therefore
 you lose the trick, my dear: She'd give 'em the game if I'd let her.—
 Oh! I'm quite shock'd.—Don't mention it, ma'am, I suppose you know no
 better.—But as to Melbourne, people say, he's now grown quite a
 fixture.—Well, that may be; there are some shams, but it's genuine
 Howqua's Mixture.—Oh! I've discover'd a thing so strange, I could set
 you all by the ears if I chose it; but I greatly mind your peace of
 mind, so I never, never, never will disclose it.—Ah! what can it be,
 whisper to me, or I never shall live to leave the place.—Then I fear
 it's your lot to die on the spot, but, as a very great secret, these
 are the facts of the case:—...


                            APRIL.—FOOLING.

After this, as you may fancy, I left this disgusting establishment, and
lived for some time along with pa and mamma at home. My education was
finished, at least mamma and I agreed that it was: and from boyhood
until hobbadyhoyhood (which I take to be about the sixteenth year of the
life of a young man, and may be likened to the month of April when
spring begins to bloom), from fourteen until seventeen, I say, I
remained at home, doing nothing, for which I ever since have had a great
taste, the idol of my mamma, who took part in all my quarrels with
father, and used regularly to rob the weekly expenses in order to find
me in pocket-money. Poor soul! many and many is the guinea I have had
from her in that way; and so she enabled me to cut a very pretty figure.

Papa was for having me at this time articled to a merchant, or put to
some profession; but mamma and I agreed that I was born to be a
gentleman, and not a tradesman, and the army was the only place for me.
Everybody was a soldier in those times, for the French war had just
begun, and the whole country was swarming with militia regiments. "We'll
get him a commission in a marching regiment," said my father; "as we
have no money to purchase him up, he'll _fight_ his way, I make no
doubt;" and papa looked at me, with a kind of air of contempt, as much
as to say he doubted whether I should be very eager for such a dangerous
way of bettering myself.

I wish you could have heard mamma's screech, when he talked so coolly of
my going out to fight. "What, send him abroad! across the horrid, horrid
sea—to be wrecked and, perhaps, drowned, and only to land for the
purpose of fighting the wicked Frenchmen,—to be wounded, and perhaps
kick—kick—killed! Oh, Thomas, Thomas! would you murder me and your boy?"
There was a regular scene;—however it ended, as it always did, in
mother's getting the better, and it was settled that I should go into
the militia. And why not? the uniform is just as handsome, and the
danger not half so great. I don't think in the course of my whole
military experience I ever fought anything, except an old woman, who had
the impudence to hallo out, "Heads up, lobster!"—Well, I joined the
North Bungays and was fairly launched into the world.

I was not a handsome man, I know; but there was _something_ about me—
that's very evident—for the girls always laughed when they talked to me,
and the men, though they affected to call me a poor little creature,
squint-eyes, knock-knees, red-head, and so on, were evidently annoyed by
my success, for they hated me so confoundedly. Even at the present time
they go on, though I have given up gallivanting, as I call it. But in
the April of my existence—that is, in Anno Domini 1791, or so—it was a
different case; and having nothing else to do, and being bent upon
bettering my condition, I did some very pretty things in that way. But I
was not hot-headed and imprudent, like most young fellows.—Don't fancy I
looked for beauty! Pish!—I wasn't such a fool. Nor for temper; I don't
care about a bad temper: I could break any woman's heart in two years.
What I wanted was to get on in the world. Of course, I didn't _prefer_
an ugly woman, or a shrew; and, when the choice offered, would certainly
put up with a handsome, good-humoured girl, with plenty of money, as any
honest man would.

Now there were two tolerably rich girls in our parts: Miss Magdalen
Crutty, with twelve thousand pounds (and, to do her justice, as plain a
girl as ever I saw), and Miss Mary Waters, a fine, tall, plump, smiling,
peach-cheeked, golden-haired, white-skinned lass, with only ten. Mary
Waters lived with her uncle, the Doctor, who had helped me into the
world, and who was trusted with this little orphan charge very soon
after. My mother, as you have heard, was so fond of Bates, and Bates so
fond of little Mary, that both, at first, were almost always in our
house: and I used to call her my little wife, as soon as I could speak,
and before she could walk, almost. It was beautiful to see us, the
neighbours said.

Well, when her brother, the lieutenant of an India ship, came to be
captain, and actually gave Mary five thousand pounds, when she was about
ten years old, and promised her five thousand more, there was a great
talking, and bobbing, and smiling, between the Doctor and my parents,
and Mary and I were left together more than ever, and she was told to
call me her little husband: and she did, and it was considered a settled
thing from that day. She was really amazingly fond of me.

Can any one call me mercenary after that? Though Miss Crutty had twelve
thousand, and Mary only ten (five in hand, and five in the bush), I
stuck faithfully to Mary. As a matter of course, Miss Crutty hated Miss
Waters. The fact was, Mary had all the country dangling after her, and
not a soul would come to Magdalen, for all her £12,000. I used to be
attentive to her, though (as it's always useful to be); and Mary would
sometimes laugh and sometimes cry at my flirting with Magdalen. This I
thought proper very quickly to check. "Mary," said I, "you know that my
love for you is disinterested,—for I am faithful to you, though Miss
Crutty is richer than you. Don't fly into a rage, then, because I pay
her attentions, when you know that my heart and my promise are engaged
to you."

The fact is, to tell a little bit of a secret, there is nothing like the
having two strings to your bow. "Who knows?" thought I, "Mary may die;
and then where are my £10,000?" So I used to be very kind indeed to Miss
Crutty; and well it was that I was so: for when I was twenty, and Mary
eighteen, I'm blest if news did not arrive that Captain Waters, who was
coming home to England with all his money in rupees, had been taken—
ship, rupees, self and all—by a French privateer; and Mary, instead of
£10,000, had only £5000, making a difference of no less than £350 per
annum betwixt her and Miss Crutty.

I had just joined my regiment (the famous North Bungay Fencibles,
Colonel Craw commanding) when this news reached me; and you may fancy
how a young man, in an expensive regiment and mess, having uniforms and
whatnot to pay for, and a figure to cut in the world, felt at hearing
such news! "My dearest Robert," wrote Miss Waters, "will deplore my dear
brother's loss: but not, I am sure, the money which that kind and
generous soul had promised me. I have still five thousand pounds, and
with this and your own little fortune (I had £1000 in the five per
cents.!) we shall be as happy and contented as possible."

Happy and contented, indeed! Didn't I know how my father got on with his
£300 a-year, and how it was all he could do out of it to add a hundred
a-year to my narrow income, and live himself! My mind was made up—I
instantly mounted the coach, and flew to our village,—to Mr. Crutty's,
of course. It was next door to Doctor Bates's; but I had no business
_there_.

I found Magdalen in the garden. "Heavens, Mr. Stubbs!" said she, as in
my new uniform I appeared before her, "I really did never—such a
handsome officer—expect to see you;" and she made as if she would blush,
and began to tremble violently. I led her to a garden seat. I seized her
hand—it was not withdrawn. I pressed it;—I thought the pressure was
returned. I flung myself on my knees, and then I poured into her ear a
little speech which I had made on the top of the coach. "Divine Miss
Crutty," said I; "idol of my soul! It was but to catch one glimpse of
you that I passed through this garden. I never intended to breathe the
secret passion (oh, no! of course not) which was wearing my life away.
You know my unfortunate pre-engagement,—it is broken, and _for ever_! I
am free!—free, but to be your slave,—your humblest, fondest, truest
slave:" and so on.....

"O, Mr. Stubbs," said she, as I imprinted a kiss upon her cheek, "I
can't refuse you; but I fear you are a sad, naughty man...."

Absorbed in the delicious reverie which was caused by the dear
creature's confusion, we were both silent for a while, and should have
remained so for hours, perhaps, so lost were we in happiness, had I not
been suddenly roused by a voice exclaiming from behind us,

"_Don't cry, Mary; he is a swindling, sneaking scoundrel, and you are
well rid of him!_"

I turned round! O, Heaven! there stood Mary, weeping on Doctor Bates's
arm, while that miserable apothecary was looking at me with the utmost
scorn. The gardener who had let me in had told them of my arrival, and
now stood grinning behind them. "Imperence!" was my Magdalen's only
exclamation, as she flounced by with the utmost self-possession, while
I, glancing daggers at _the spies_, followed her. We retired to the
parlour, where she repeated to me the strongest assurances of her love.

I thought I was a made man. Alas! I was only an APRIL FOOL!

                               MAY                                 [1839

[Illustration]


                          THE CONCERT SEASON.

[Sidenote: _State of the_
           _Weather._
           ——
           Hocus Pocus
           look for
           RAIN.
           [Illustration]
           Hoaxem
           Folksem
           FINE
           again!
           [Illustration]
           Would you
           know the
           WET from
           DRY,
           "_Buy, Buy, Buy_."
           It's like to
           CHANGE when
           cats do cry.
]

         That very merry pleasant month of May
         Is made for Music, as the poets say;
         Whether in shady groves we seek retreat,
         Or view the Concert bills in Regent-street,
         'Twould seem as though the world was gone a-singing—
         Green bowers and Opera boxes all are ringing
         With strains of melody that pour upon us,
         From thrushes, nightingales, and prima Donnas.
         The little birds sing treeos in each nook,
         And turn over the leaves for want of book;
         While operas, scored for twenty kettle-drums
         By Costa, sent to pot our tympanums.
         But what harmonious armies now besiege
         The ears and pockets of each simple liege:
         Jew German minstrels, in Whitechapel born,
         Brazen performers on a brazen horn,
         And he who, having nothing to put in
         His empty mouth, plays tunes upon his chin.
             Forsaking soap, my washerwoman's daughters
         Practise soprano, "o'er the dark blue waters,"
         On drying days supreme their glory shines,
         And soars aloft, to C above the lines.
         But far and wide they solo, catch, and glee 'em
         At EAGLE, CONDUIT, STINGO, _Call-an-seum_,
         Where unknown throngs from unknown regions go,
         For gin, tobacco, and "The Chough and Crow,"
         And MELODISTS', where shopmen, quite sublime,
         In counter-tenor murder tune and time,
         And while for pleasure, perhaps, abroad they roam,
         A little concert waits for them at home.

[Illustration:

  "_A small Music Party._"
]

            I hate all amateurs who play the flute—
            All sulky singing ladies who sit mute—
            I hate a piece, made up of variations
            On tiresome ditties borrow'd from all nations;
            I hate, although I love a cheerful song,
            To be obliged to listen all night long.

[Illustration]


                         MAY.—RESTORATION DAY.

As the month of May is considered, by poets and other philosophers, to
be devoted by Nature to the great purpose of love-making, I may as well
take advantage of that season and acquaint you with the result of _my_
amours.

Young, gay, fascinating, and an ensign, I had completely won the heart
of my Magdalen; and as for Miss Waters and her nasty uncle the Doctor,
there was a complete split between us, as you may fancy; Miss,
pretending, forsooth, that she was glad I had broken off the match,
though she would have given her eyes, the little minx, to have had it on
again. But this was out of the question. My father, who had all sorts of
queer notions, said I had acted like a rascal in the business; my mother
took my part, in course, and declared I acted rightly, as I always did:
and I got leave of absence from the regiment in order to press my
beloved Magdalen to marry me out of hand—knowing, from reading and
experience, the extraordinary mutability of human affairs.

Besides, as the dear girl was seventeen years older than myself, and as
bad in health as she was in temper, how was I to know that the grim king
of terrors might not carry her off before she became mine? With the
tenderest warmth, then, and most delicate ardour, I continued to press
my suit. The happy day was fixed—the ever-memorable 10th of May, 1792;
the wedding clothes were ordered; and, to make things secure, I penned a
little paragraph for the county paper to this effect:—"Marriage in High
Life. We understand that Ensign Stubbs, of the North Bungay Fencibles,
and son of Thomas Stubbs, of Sloffemsquiggle, Esquire, is about to lead
to the hymeneal altar the lovely and accomplished daughter of Solomon
Crutty, Esquire, of the same place. A fortune of twenty thousand pounds
is, we hear, the lady's portion. 'None but the brave deserve the
fair....'"

"Have you informed your relatives, my beloved," said I to Magdalen one
day after sending the above notice; "will any of them attend at your
marriage?"

"Uncle Sam will, I daresay," said Miss Crutty, "dear mamma's brother."

"And who _was_ your dear mamma?" said I, for Miss Crutty's respected
parent had been long since dead, and I never heard her name mentioned in
the family.

Magdalen blushed, and cast down her eyes to the ground. "Mamma was a
foreigner," at last she said.

"And of what country?"

"A German; papa married her when she was very young:—she was not of a
very good family," said Miss Crutty, hesitating.

"And what care I for family, my love," said I, tenderly kissing the
knuckles of the hand which I held; "she must have been an angel who gave
birth to you."

"She was a shoemaker's daughter."

_A German shoemaker!_ hang 'em, thought I, I have had enough of them,
and so I broke up this conversation, which did not somehow please me....

Well, the day was drawing near: the clothes were ordered; the banns were
read. My dear mamma had built a cake about the size of a washing-tub:
and I was only waiting for a week to pass to put me in possession of
twelve thousand pounds in the _five_ per cents., as they were in those
days, Heaven bless em! Little did I know the storm that was brewing, and
the disappointment which was to fall upon a young man who really did his
best to get a fortune.

"O Robert!" said my Magdalen to me, two days before the match was to
come off, "I have _such_ a kind letter from uncle Sam, in London. I
wrote to him as you wished. He says that he is coming down to-morrow;
that he has heard of you often, and knows your character very well, and
that he has got a _very handsome present_ for us! What can it be, I
wonder?"

"Is he rich, my soul's adored?" says I.

"He is a bachelor with a fine trade, and nobody to leave his money to."

"His present can't be less than a thousand pounds," says I.

"Or, perhaps, a silver tea-set, and some corner dishes," says she.

But we could not agree to this: it was too little—too mean for a man of
her uncle's wealth; and we both determined it must be the thousand
pounds.

"Dear, good uncle! he's to be here by the coach," says Magdalen. "Let us
ask a little party to meet him." And so we did, and so they came. My
father and mother, old Crutty in his best wig, and the parson who was to
marry us next day. The coach was to come in at six. And there was the
tea-table, and there was the punch-bowl, and everybody ready and smiling
to receive our dear uncle from London.

Six o'clock came, and the coach, and the man from the Green Dragon with
a portmanteau, and a fat old gentleman walking behind, of whom I just
caught a glimpse—a venerable old gentleman—I thought I'd seen him
before....

Then there was a ring at the bell; then a scuffling and bumping at the
passage: then old Crutty rushed out, and a great laughing and talking,
and "_How are you?_" and so on, was heard at the door; and then the
parlour-door was flung open, and Crutty cried out with a loud voice—

"Good people all! my brother-in-law, Mr. STIFFELKIND!"

_Mr. Stiffelkind!_—I trembled as I heard the name!

Miss Crutty kissed him; mamma made him a curtsey, and papa made him a
bow; and Dr. Snorter, the parson, seized his hand and shook it most
warmly—then came my turn!

"Vat," says he, "it is my dear goot yong friend from Doctor
Schvis'hentail's! is dis the yong gentleman's honourable moder" (mamma
smiled and made a curtsey), "and dis his fader! Sare and madam, you
should be broud of soch a sonn. And you, my niece, if you have him for a
husband you vil be locky, dat is all. Vat dink you, broder Crotty, and
Madame Stobbs, I ave made your sonn's boots, ha! ha!"

My mamma laughed, and said, "I did not know it, but I am sure, sir, he
has as pretty a leg for a boot as any in the whole county."

Old Stiffelkind roared louder. "A very nice leg, ma'am, and a very
_sheap boot too_! Vat, you did not know I make his boots! Perhaps you
did not know someting else too—p'rhaps you did not know" (and here the
monster clapped his hand on the table, and made the punch-ladle tremble
in the bowl), "p'rhaps you did not know as dat yong man, dat Stobbs, dat
sneaking, baltry, squinting fellow, is as vicked as he is ogly. He bot a
pair of boots from me and never paid for dem. Dat is noting, nobody
never pays; but he bought a pair of boots, and called himself Lord
Cornvallis. And I was fool enough to believe him vonce. But look you,
niece Magdalen, I ave got five tousand pounds, if you marry him I vil
not give you a benny; but look you, what I will gif you, I bromised you
a bresent, and I vil give you DESE!"

And the old monster produced THOSE VERY BOOTS which Swishtail had made
him take back....

I _didn't_ marry Miss Crutty: I am not sorry for it though. She was a
nasty, ugly, ill-tempered wretch, and I've always said so ever since.

And all this arose from those infernal boots, and that unlucky paragraph
in the county paper—I'll tell you how.

In the first place, it was taken up as a quiz by one of the wicked,
profligate, unprincipled organs of the London press, who chose to be
very facetious about the "Marriage in High Life," and made all sorts of
jokes about me and my dear Miss Crutty.

Secondly, it was read in this London paper by my mortal enemy, Bunting,
who had been introduced to old Stiffelkind's acquaintance by my
adventure with him, and had his shoes made regularly by that foreign
upstart.

Thirdly, he happened to want a pair of shoes mended at this particular
period, and as he was measured by the disgusting old High-Dutch Cobbler,
he told him his old friend Stubbs was going to be married.

"And to whom?" said old Stiffelkind, "to a voman wit gelt, I vil take my
oath."

"Yes," says Bunting, "a country girl—a Miss Magdalen Carotty or Crotty,
a place called Sloffemsquiggle."

"_Schloffemschwiegel!_" bursts out the dreadful bootmaker, "Mein Gott,
mein Gott! das geht nicht—I tell you, sare, it is no go. Miss Crotty is
my niece. I vill go down myself. I vill never let her marry dat
goot-for-noting schwindler and teif." _Such_ was the language that the
scoundrel ventured to use regarding me!

[Illustration]

 1839]                                JUNE

[Illustration]


            HOW TO SCREW AN AUTHOR.—_Dr. Slop's Complaint._

20. Mr. Serj^t. Talfourd withdrew his Copyright Bill, 1838.

[Sidenote: Words are
           Wind,
           [Illustration]
           all
           know it.
           [Illustration: _Driving a Bargain!_]
           Never think
           to please
           a Poet.]

           O Longman, Longman, Orme, Brown, Green, and Co.
           And other dons of Paternoster Row!
           O enemies of authors here below,
           From those who're great to those who are but so—
                                                     so;

           Against you, Slop indignant does complain,
           Clanks in your face his literary chain;
           Stop, tyrants! who, for your peculiar gain,
           By day and night the contents of his brain
                                                     drain.

           He sows the seed, you gather in the crops;
           You sack the till, and he supplies your shops;
           You quaff champagne, while meanest malt and hops
           Do scarcely once a fortnight enter Slop's
                                                     chops.

           So wickedly does fortune treat our crew;
           So partially she deals betwixt us two;
           Nothing can miserable authors do
           But squeeze and squeeze, while pitilessly you
                                                     screw,

           Until you squeeze the hapless carcass dry.
           For such great wrongs is there no remedy?
           O, callous House of Commons! tell us why
           You pass poor authors' wrongs so careless-ly
                                                     by?

           Be these the terms for literary men:
           _First pay us authors_, let booksellers then
           Feed after us who wield the godlike pen.
           O what shall I. O. U, learn'd ION,
                                                     when,

           Thy happy bill, by law shall here prevail,
           Leaving to me (and to my sons in tail),
           Of all my works the profit of the sale:
           As for the publishers—why, rat it, _they'll_
                                                     fail.

[Illustration]


                     JUNE—MARROWBONES AND CLEAVERS.

Was there ever such confounded ill-luck? My whole life has been a tissue
of ill luck: although I have laboured, perhaps, harder than any man to
make a fortune, something always tumbled it down. In love and in war I
was not like others. In my marriages, I had an eye to the main chance;
and you see how some unlucky blow would come and throw them over. In the
army I was just as prudent, and just as unfortunate. What with judicious
betting, and horse-swapping, good luck at billiards, and economy, I do
believe I put by my pay every year,—and that is what few can say who
have but an allowance of a hundred a-year.

I'll tell you how it was. I used to be very kind to the young men; I
chose their horses for them, and their wine; and showed them how to play
billiards, or écarté, of long mornings, when there was nothing better to
do. I didn't cheat: I'd rather die than cheat; but if fellows _will_
play, I wasn't the man to say no—why should I? There was one young chap
in our regiment of whom I really think I cleared 300_l._ a-year.

His name was Dobble. He was a tailor's son, and wanted to be a
gentleman. A poor, weak young creature; easy to be made tipsy: easy to
be cheated; and easy to be frightened. It was a blessing for him that I
found him; for if anybody else had, they would have plucked him of every
shilling.

Ensign Dobble and I were sworn friends. I rode his horses for him, and
chose his champagne: and did everything, in fact, that a superior mind
does for an inferior—when the inferior has got the money. We were
inseparables—hunting everywhere in couples. We even managed to fall in
love with two sisters, as young soldiers will do, you know; for the dogs
fall in love with every change of quarters.

Well: once, in the year 1793 (it was just when the French had chopped
poor Louis's head off), Dobble and I, gay young chaps as ever wore sword
by side, had cast our eyes upon two young ladies, by the name of
Brisket, daughters of a butcher in the town where we were quartered. The
dear girls fell in love with us, of course. And many a pleasant walk in
the country; many a treat to a tea-garden; many a smart riband and
brooch, used Dobble and I (for his father allowed him 600_l._, and our
purses were in common) to present to these young ladies. One day, fancy
our pleasure at receiving a note couched thus:—

"Deer Capting Stubbs and Dobble—Miss Briskets presents their
compliments, and as it is probble that our papa will be till 12 at the
corprayshun dinner, we request the pleasure of their company to tea."

Didn't we go! Punctually at six we were in the little back parlour; we
quaffed more Bohea, and made more love, than half-a-dozen ordinary men
could. At nine, a little punch-bowl succeeded to the little tea-pot;
and, bless the girls! a nice fresh steak was frizzling on the gridiron
for our supper. Butchers were butchers then, and their parlour was their
kitchen, too; at least old Brisket's was.—One door leading into the
shop, and one into the yard, on the other side of which was the
slaughter-house.

Fancy, then, our horror when, just at this critical time, we heard the
shop door open, a heavy staggering step on the flags, and a loud husky
voice from the shop, shouting, "Hallo, Susan! hallo, Betsy! show a
light!" Dobble turned as white as a sheet; the two girls each as red as
a lobster; I alone preserved my presence of mind. "The back door," says
I.—"The dog's in the court," says they. "He's not so bad as the man,"
says I. "Stop," cries Susan, flinging open the door, and rushing to the
fire: "take _this_, and perhaps it will quiet him."

What do you think "_this_" was? I'm blest if it was not the _steak_!

She pushed us out, patted and hushed the dog, and was in again in a
minute. The moon was shining on the court, and on the slaughter-house,
where there hung a couple of white, ghastly-looking carcasses of a
couple of sheep; a great gutter ran down the court—a gutter of _blood_!—
the dog was devouring his beefsteak (_our_ beefsteak) in silence,—and we
could see through the little window the girls bustling about to pack up
the supper-things, and presently the shop door opened, old Brisket
entered, staggering, angry, and drunk. What's more, we could see,
perched on a high stool, and nodding politely, as if to salute old
Brisket, the _feather of Dobble's cocked hat_! When Dobble saw it he
turned white, and deadly sick; and the poor fellow, in an agony of
fright, sunk shivering down upon one of the butcher's cutting blocks
which was in the yard.

[Illustration]

We saw old Brisket look steadily (as steadily as he could) at the
confounded impudent, pert waggling feather; and then an idea began to
dawn upon his mind, that there was a head to the hat; and then he slowly
rose up—he was a man of six feet, and fifteen stone—he rose up, put on
his apron and sleeves, and _took down his cleaver_.

"Betsy," says he, "open the yard door." But the poor girls screamed, and
flung on their knees, and begged, and wept, and did their very best to
prevent him. "OPEN THE YARD DOOR," says he, with a thundering loud
voice; and the great bull-dog, hearing it, started up, and uttered a
yell which sent me flying to the other end of the court.—Dobble couldn't
move; he was sitting on the block, blubbering like a baby.

The door opened, and out Mr. Brisket came.

"_To him, Jowler_," says he, "_keep him, Jowler_,"—and the horrid dog
flew at me, and I flew back into the corner, and drew my sword,
determining to sell my life dearly.

"That's it," says Brisket, "keep him there,—good dog,—good dog! And now,
sir," says he, turning to Dobble, "is this your hat?"

"Yes," says Dobble, fit to choke with fright.

"Well, then," says Brisket, "it's my—(hick)—my painful duty to—(hick)—to
tell you, that as I've got your hat, I must have your head;—it's
painful, but it must be done. You'd better—(hick)—settle yourself com—
comfumarably against that—(hick)—that block, and I'll chop it off before
you can say Jack—(hick)—no, I mean Jack Robinson."

Dobble went down on his knees, and shrieked out, "I'm an only son, Mr.
Brisket! I'll marry her, sir; I will, upon my honour, sir.—Consider my
mother, sir; consider my mother."

"That's it, sir," says Brisket—"that's a good boy—(hick)—a good boy;
just put your head down quietly—and I'll have it off—yes, off—as if you
were Louis the Six—the Sixtix—the Sixtickleteenth.—I'll chop the other
_chap afterwards_."

When I heard this, I made a sudden bound back, and gave such a cry as
any man might who was in such a way. The ferocious Jowler, thinking I
was going to escape, flew at my throat; screaming furious, I flung out
my arms in a kind of desperation,—and, to my wonder, down fell the dog,
dead, and run through the body!

                  *       *       *       *       *

At this moment a posse of people rushed in upon old Brisket—one of his
daughters had had the sense to summon them—and Dobble's head was saved.
And when they saw the dog lying dead at my feet, my ghastly look, my
bloody sword, they gave me no small credit for my bravery. "A terrible
fellow, that Stubbs," said they; and so the mess said, the next day.

I didn't tell them that the dog had committed _suicide_—why should I?
And I didn't say a word about Dobble's cowardice. I said he was a brave
fellow, and fought like a tiger; and this prevented _him_ from telling
tales. I had the dog-skin made into a pair of pistol-holsters, and
looked so fierce, and got such a name for courage in our regiment, that
when we had to meet the regulars, Bob Stubbs was always the man put
forward to support the honour of the corps. The women, you know, adore
courage; and such was my reputation at this time, that I might have had
my pick out of half-a-dozen, with three, four, or five thousand pounds
a-piece, who were dying for love of me and my red coat. But I wasn't
such a fool. I had been twice on the point of marriage, and twice
disappointed; and I vowed by all the Saints to have a wife, and a rich
one. Depend upon this, as an infallible maxim to guide you through life—
_It's as easy to get a rich wife as a poor one_;—the same bait that will
hook a fly will hook a salmon.

                              JULY.                                [1839

1. New registration of births commenced, 1837.

  THE FORCE OF HABIT. {"Now, Sir, the father's name—this column—so—
                      {There, very well—what is it?"—"_Jones & Co.!_"

                  *       *       *       *       *


                         SO-HO-LOGICAL SOCIETY.

At the annual July meeting of this renowned establishment, petitions
were presented from the animals of the menagerie, respecting their
grievances: the following were the greatest cases of hardship:—The
Carnivora, in a body, complained of a diminution and recent alteration
in their diet; the Society having, from a regard to economy and its
diminished finances, changed their food from good ox beef to asses'
flesh. They feared that, should they become addicted to this kind of
viand, they might, in a moment of desperation, be tempted, from the
similarity, to make free with the bodies of any of the members that came
in their way, a piece of ingratitude of which the great brown bruin, in
particular, said he could not bear the thought. The Royal Tigers
complained that some of their family had been carried off by a disorder
resembling the "King's evil;" this they attributed to the Society's
being under Royal patronage, which they had, in the course of their
travels, observed to be fatal in many other establishments. The Dogs
begged that, if they were to have no more meat, they might, at least, be
indulged with a copy of "South on the Bones." The beasts and birds,
generally, declared themselves ashamed of the shabby appearance of their
friends in the Museum, asserting that, living and dead, they were alike
badly stuffed. The Parrots spoke of the smallness of their cages, which,
they entreated, might be enlarged in dimensions by at least a perch or
two. The whole tribe of Simiæ, like the Baronets, prayed for a badge of
distinction. They stated that their appearance was so closely imitated
by numerous individuals who crowded around their cages on fine days in
the fashionable season, that their visitors did not know one from the
other, and frequently asked "Which _are_ the monkeys?"

All the animals prayed the benefit of clergy for the remission of their
Sunday fasts, and implored the Bishop of London, though he could not get
them a holiday on that day, to at least interfere to procure them a
dinner.

15. St Swithin begins to _reign_. Umbrellas look up.

[Illustration]


                       JULY.—SUMMERY PROCEEDINGS.

Dobble's reputation for courage was not increased by the butcher's-dog
adventure; but mine stood very high: little Stubbs was voted the boldest
chap of all the bold North-Bungays. And though I must confess, what was
proved by subsequent circumstances, that Nature has _not_ endowed me
with a large, or even, I may say, an average share of bravery, yet a man
is very willing to flatter himself of the contrary; and, after a little
time, I got to believe that my killing the dog was an action of
undaunted courage; and that I was as gallant as any one of the hundred
thousand heroes of our army. I always had a military taste—it's only the
brutal part of the profession, the horrid fighting, and blood, that I
don't like.

I suppose the regiment was not very brave itself—being only militia;
but, certain it was that Stubbs was considered a most terrible fellow,
and I swore so much, and looked so fierce, that you would have fancied I
had made half a hundred campaigns. I was second in several duels; the
umpire in all disputes; and such a crack-shot myself that fellows were
shy of insulting me. As for Dobble, I took him under my protection; and
he became so attached to me that we ate, drank, and rode together, every
day; his father didn't care for money, so long as his son was in good
company—and what so good as that of the celebrated Stubbs? Heigho! I
_was_ good company in those days, and a brave fellow, too, as I should
have remained, but for—what I shall tell the public immediately.

It happened, in the fatal year ninety-six, that the brave North-Bungays
were quartered at Portsmouth; a maritime place, which I need not
describe, and which I wish I had never seen. I might have been a General
now, or, at least, a rich man.

The red-coats carried everything before them in those days; and I, such
a crack character as I was in my regiment, was very well received by the
towns-people; many dinners I had; many tea-parties; many lovely young
ladies did I lead down the pleasant country-dances.

Well; although I had had the two former rebuffs in love, which I have
described, my heart was still young; and the fact was, knowing that a
girl with a fortune was my only chance, I made love here as furiously as
ever. I shan't describe the lovely creatures on whom I had fixed whilst
at Portsmouth. I tried more than—several—and it is a singular fact,
which I never have been able to account for, that, successful as I was
with ladies of maturer age, by the young ones I was refused regular.

But "faint heart never won fair lady;" and so I went on, and on, until I
had really got a Miss Clopper, a tolerably rich navy-contractor's
daughter, into such a way that I really don't think she could have
refused me. Her brother, Captain Clopper, was in a line regiment, and
helped me as much as ever he could; he swore I was such a brave fellow.

As I had received a number of attentions from Clopper, I determined to
invite him to dinner; which I could do without any sacrifice of my
principle, upon this point; for the fact is, Dobble lived at an inn—and
as he sent all his bills to his father, I made no scruple to use his
table. We dined in the coffee-room; Dobble bringing his friend, and so
we made a party _carry_, as the French say. Some naval officers were
occupied in a similar way at a table next to ours.

Well—I didn't spare the bottle, either for myself or my friends; and we
grew very talkative, and very affectionate as the drinking went on. Each
man told stories of his gallantry in the field, or amongst the ladies,
as officers will, after dinner. Clopper confided to the company his wish
that I should marry his sister, and vowed that he thought me the best
fellow in Christendom.

Ensign Dobble assented to this—"But let Miss Clopper beware," says he,
"for Stubbs is a sad fellow; he has had I don't know how many _liaisons_
already; and he has been engaged to I don't know how many women."

"Indeed!" says Clopper. "Come, Stubbs, tell us your adventures."

"Psha!" said I, modestly, "there is nothing, indeed, to tell; I have
been in love, my dear boy—who has not?—and I have been jilted—who has
not?"

Clopper swore that he would blow his sister's brains out if ever _she_
served me so.

"Tell him about Miss Crutty," said Dobble; "he! he! Stubbs served _that_
woman out, any how; she didn't jilt _him_, I'll be sworn."

"Really, Dobble, you are too bad, and should not mention names; the fact
is, the girl was desperately in love with me, and had money—sixty
thousand pounds, upon my reputation. Well, everything was arranged,
when, who should come down from London, but a relation."

"Well; and did he prevent the match?"

"Prevent it—yes, sir, I believe you, he did; though not in the sense
that _you_ mean; he would have given his eyes: ay, and ten thousand
pounds more, if I would have accepted the girl, but I would not."

"Why, in the name of goodness?"

"Sir, her uncle was a _shoemaker_. I never would debase myself by
marrying into such a family."

"Of course not," said Dobble, "he couldn't, you know. Well, now—tell him
about the other girl, Mary Waters, you know."

"Hush, Dobble, hush! don't you see one of those naval officers has
turned round and heard you? My dear Clopper, it was a mere childish
bagatelle."

"Well, but let's have it," said Clopper, "let's have it; I won't tell my
sister, you know;" and he put his hand to his nose, and looked monstrous
wise.

"Nothing of that sort, Clopper—no, no—'pon honour—little Bob Stubbs is
no _libertine_; and the story is very simple. You see that my father has
a small place, merely a few hundred acres, at Sloffemsquiggle. Isn't it
a funny name? Hang it, there's the naval gentleman staring again,—(I
looked terribly fierce as I returned this officer's stare, and continued
in a loud, careless voice) well—at this Sloffemsquiggle there lived a
girl, a Miss Waters, the niece of some blackguard apothecary in the
neighbourhood; but my mother took a fancy to the girl, and had her up to
the park, and petted her. We were both young—and—and—the girl fell in
love with me, that's the fact. I was obliged to repel some rather warm
advances that she made me; and here, upon my honour as a gentleman, you
have all the story about which that silly Dobble makes such a noise."

Just as I finished this sentence, I found myself suddenly taken by the
nose, and a voice shouting out,—

"Mr. Stubbs, you are A LIAR AND A SCOUNDREL! take this, sir,—and this,
for daring to meddle with the name of an innocent lady."

I turned round as well as I could, for the ruffian had pulled me out of
my chair, and beheld a great marine monster, six feet high, who was
occupied in beating and kicking me, in the most ungentlemanly manner, on
my cheeks, my ribs, and between the tails of my coat. "He is a liar,
gentlemen, and a scoundrel; the bootmaker had detected him in swindling,
and so his niece refused him. Miss Waters was engaged to him from
childhood, and he deserted her for the bootmaker's niece, who was
richer;"—and then sticking a card between my stock and my coat-collar,
in what is called the scruff of my neck, the disgusting brute gave me
another blow behind my back, and left the coffee-room with his friends.

Dobble raised me up; and taking the card from my neck, read, CAPTAIN
WATERS. Clopper poured me out a glass of water, and said in my ear, "If
this is true, you are an infernal scoundrel, Stubbs; and must fight me,
after Captain Waters," and he flounced out of the room.

I had but one course to pursue. I sent the Captain a short and
contemptuous note, saying, that he was beneath my anger. As for Clopper,
I did not condescend to notice his remark; but in order to get rid of
the troublesome society of these low blackguards, I determined to
gratify an inclination I had long entertained, and make a little tour. I
applied for leave of absence, and set off _that very night_. I can fancy
the disappointment of the brutal Waters, on coming, as he did, the next
morning, to my quarters and finding me _gone_, ha! ha!

After this adventure I became sick of a military life—at least, the life
of my own regiment, where the officers, such was their unaccountable
meanness and prejudice against me, absolutely refused to see me at mess.
Colonel Craw sent me a letter to this effect, which I treated as it
deserved.—I never once alluded to it in any way, and have since never
spoken a single word to any man in the North-Bungays.


    _Association of British Illuminati, to be held in the Town Hall,
                     Birmingham, in August, 1839._

  [We have been specially favoured with an account of some of the most
  important affairs to be transacted at the 1839 meeting; many of
  which, from the general inaccuracy of the published report, will,
  perhaps, not meet the public eye in any other way.]

The Lions of the day from all parts of the world are pledged to be
present, among others those of Mr. Van Amburgh. The man with the goats
and monkeys as yet sticks out for terms. Miss Amany Amal and sisters
will remain in this country, and attend, by permission from the Adelphi,
to communicate their interesting discoveries in Indian Toe-pography. The
president of the Nose-all-ogical Society will be engaged, as also Grace
Darling, if not too dear.

A Deputation from the Female Temperance Society will wait on the section
devoted to the investigation of mesmerism, to know if they may take
infinitesimal doses of brandy in their tea; and the section of moral
science will be requested, for the satisfaction of the scrupulous, to
state whether persons who abjure gin, rum, and brandy, because they do
not like them, are, therefore, fit members of a temperance society.

Professor Murphy will announce his discovery of the real philosopher's
stone, by which he will prove to them the possibility of converting all
sorts of rubbish into gold. It is intended to present to him the freedom
of the town in a brass snuff-box.

Dr. Crow will read a paper on the sagacity of rooks, in which he will
propound and defend the extraordinary conjecture that they never make a
noise without caws.

A Deputation from the Fellows of the Zoological Society will attend, to
request the Homœopathic section to devise some means for the application
of animal magnetism to the purpose of drawing more visitors to the
menagerie. Many of the public, it seems, are cured of their wish for
seeing "by smelling only;" and as it is supposed that the council "nose"
all about it, they will now begin to _vent-too-late_.

Mr. Owen will attempt to explain his plans for getting rid of old
discord by the establishment of New Harmony, and his peculiar notions of
the preservation of peace, by the disposal of the ladies on the
circulating library principle. Should he prove unable to make his views
clear, either to his auditors or himself, he will finish with a
catalogue of his own perfections, accompanied on the trumpet stop of the
town organ.

Mrs. Graham and her husband will cause to be read to the meeting a
paper, detailing numerous experiments, all tending to prove that it is a
popular fallacy to suppose that balloons have a tendency to rise in the
air.

Mr. Curtis will exhibit his celebrated acoustic chair, and explain its
capabilities. He will display the gold medal presented to him by
Government for the loan of it during the last year, and will show how a
foreign or colonial secretary may slumber in it from morn till night,
and yet hear what is going on all over the world. Mr. Curtis will
further develope, by experiments on all who choose to try, its amazing
property, by which a gentleman has only to sit in the chair, and appear
to sleep, when he will be astonished to hear what all the world says of
him.

Mr. Serjeant Talfourd will read a paper on the wrongs of authors, and
instance many affecting cases in which, after having been allowed to
live in splendour for a few years, they have been so reduced, by the
illiberality of the trade and the ingratitude of the public, as to
actually want a bottle of Champagne. He will illustrate the state of
civil degradation to which they are reduced by the fact that at one of
his literary dinners, a gentleman who had laboured in the Grub Street
line all his life, actually did not know the names of some of the dishes
set before him. Mr. Babbage will follow, with calculations produced by
his machine, proving that every book is profitable, and that booksellers
have neither rent, taxes, stock, nor bad debts to trouble them. He will
allude to the fact of a West-end publisher having lately retired with a
competence, and will suggest the propriety of a special meeting to
inquire into the circumstances of such an atrocity. He will be supported
by Captain Ross, who, however, will _not_ state that author-ship is the
worst vessel in which he ever put to sea.

Professor Fang, of Manchester, will present an interesting series of
tests for ascertaining the existence of the vital principle in Factory
children after they drop; and will suggest various novel stimulants when
the billy roller has ceased to be effective. He will point out the evil
of legislating on the subject of their ages, of which he will show the
impossibility of obtaining the requisite proofs, arising from that
beautiful economy of nature which bestows nothing in vain, and,
therefore, withholds from them the usual supply of teeth, seeing that
they have no time to use them.

Dr. Doubledose will communicate some interesting discoveries in the
science of taw-tology, illustrated with real marbles. All the town's
boys will be allowed to stand at this sitting.

Many other elaborate papers will be read to the various sections; but,
as they will generally be about nothing, it is considered that they need
trouble nobody.

Mrs. Williams, of the Old Bailey, will attend, for the accommodation of
the visitors, with a copious supply of pewter plates, two-pronged forks,
and handsome waiting maids; and a constant succession of buttocks and
flanks, hot and hot, will be received by every train from Euston Square.

The inhabitants of the town are determined to shew their hospitality to
the illustrious strangers they expect, and all the bachelors of arts and
unmarried professors will be warmly welcomed at the houses of the single
ladies.

[Illustration]

 1839.]                             AUGUST.

1. Abolition of Negro Slavery, 1834; of Negro Apprenticeship, 1838.

[Illustration:

  St. Swithin at his post.
]


                     CHESS.—"BLACK MOVES AND WINS."

           Dozing in his easy chair,
           Round his nose mosquitoes flitting,
           Sweltering in the sunny air,
           Was Nine-tail Joe of Kingston sitting.

           Now Nine-tailed Joe loved cheerfulness,
           And he chanced in a pleasant mood to be,
           So he flogged his niggers, and played at chess,
           And drank a full jorum of Sangaree.

           What can be the matter with flogging Joe?
           His eyes are rolling to and fro,
           And he rubs his nose with his finger and thumb,
           And gasps to speak, like one that is dumb.

           The forms that lately were pawns and knights,
           And bishops, and queens, and kings,
           Were reeling and wheeling, like so many sprites,
           Or other unearthly things.

           And beings all fearfully black were there,
           And they roll'd their eyes at Joe,
           And wildly flourished the _cat_ in air,
           And danced to "Jump Jim Crow."

           Before them fled both bishop and knight,
           While pawn and king were seen
           Rolling and tumbling, in awful plight,—
           Decorum was gone, and they fled outright,—
           And surely it was a most terrible sight
           When the bishop fell over the queen.

           With burning head and aching heart,
           Up from his chair did the planter start:
           But the vision had fled, and there, instead
           Of dancing niggers' furious tread,
           Was seen the _Bill_, the dreadful Bill,
           The Whiggish Act of Slavery,
           That made him rich against his will,
           And stopped him in his knavery.

                              ——————

               The planter's dream doth plainly seem
                 To point a moral deep:
               If you choose to whack a nigger's back,
                 You should never go to sleep.


                     AUGUST.—DOGS HAVE THEIR DAYS.

See, now, what life is; I have had ill-luck on ill-luck from that day to
this. I have sunk in the world, and, instead of riding my horse and
drinking my wine, as a real gentleman should, have hardly enough now to
buy a pint of ale; ay, and am very glad when anybody will treat me to
one. Why, why was I born to undergo such unmerited misfortunes?

You must know that very soon after my adventure with Miss Crutty, and
that cowardly ruffian, Captain Waters (he sailed the day after his
insult to me, or I should most certainly have blown his brains out;
_now_ he is living in England, and is my relation; but, of course, I cut
the fellow). Very soon after these painful events another happened,
which ended, too, in a sad disappointment. My dear papa died, and
instead of leaving five thousand pounds as I expected, at the very
least, left only his estate, which was worth but two. The land and house
were left to me; to mamma and my sisters he left, to be sure, a sum of
two thousand pounds in the hands of that eminent firm, Messrs. Pump,
Aldgate, and Co., which failed within six months after his demise; and
paid in five years about one shilling and ninepence in the pound; which
really was all my dear mother and sisters had to live upon.

The poor creatures were quite unused to money matters; and, would you
believe it? when the news came of Pump and Aldgate's failure, mamma only
smiled, and threw her eyes up to Heaven, and said, "Blessed be God, that
we have still wherewithal to live: there are tens of thousands in this
world, dear children, who would count our poverty riches." And with this
she kissed my two sisters, who began to blubber, as girls always will
do, and threw their arms round her neck, and then round my neck, until I
was half stifled with their embraces, and slobbered all over with their
tears.

"Dearest mamma," said I, "I am very glad to see the noble manner in
which you bear your loss; and more still to know that you are so rich as
to be able to put up with it." The fact was, I really thought the old
lady had got a private hoard of her own, as many of them have—a thousand
pounds or so in a stocking. Had she put by thirty pounds a year, as well
she might, for the thirty years of her marriage, there would have been
nine hundred pounds clear, and no mistake. But still I was angry to
think that any such paltry concealment had been practised—concealment
too of _my_ money; so I turned on her pretty sharply, and continued my
speech. "You say, ma'am, that you are rich, and that Pump and Aldgate's
failure has no effect upon you. I am very happy to hear you say so,
ma'am—very happy that you _are_ rich; and I should like to know where
your property, my father's property, for you had none of your own,—I
should like to know where this money lies—_where you have concealed it_,
ma'am, and permit me to say, that when I agreed to board you and my two
sisters for eighty pounds a year, I did not know that you had _other_
resources than those mentioned in my blessed father's will."

This I said to her because I hated the meanness of concealment, not
because I lost by the bargain of boarding them, for the three poor
things did not eat much more than sparrows; and I've often since
calculated that I had a clear twenty pounds a year profit out of them.

Mamma and the girls looked quite astonished when I made the speech.
"What does he mean?" said Lucy to Eliza.

Mamma repeated the question, "My beloved Robert, what concealment are
you talking of?"

"I am talking of concealed property, ma'am," says I, sternly.

"And do you—what—can you—do you really suppose that I have concealed—any
of that blessed sa-a-a-aint's prop-op-op-operty?" screams out mamma.
"Robert," says she, "Bob, my own darling boy—my fondest, best beloved,
now _he_ is gone" (meaning my late governor—more tears), "you don't, you
cannot fancy that your own mother, who bore you, and nursed you, and
wept for you, and would give her all to save you from a moment's harm—
you don't suppose that she would che-e-e-eat you?" and here she gave a
louder screech than ever, and flung back on the sofa, and one of my
sisters went and tumbled into her arms, and t'other went round, and the
kissing and slobbering scene went on again, only I was left out, thank
goodness; I hate such sentimentality.

"_Che-e-e-at me_," says I, mocking her. "What do you mean, then, by
saying you're so rich? Say, have you got money or have you not?" (and I
rapped out a good number of oaths, too, which I don't put in here; but I
was in a dreadful fury, that's the fact).

"So help me, Heaven," says mamma, in answer, going down on her knees,
and smacking her two hands; "I have but a Queen Anne's guinea in the
whole of this wicked world."

"Then what, madam, induces you to tell these absurd stories to me, and
to talk about your riches, when you know that you and your daughters are
beggars, ma'am—_beggars_?"

"My dearest boy, have we not got the house, and the furniture, and a
hundred a year still; and have you not great talents which will make all
our fortunes?" says Mrs. Stubbs, getting up off her knees, and making
believe to smile as she clawed hold of my hand and kissed it.

This was _too_ cool. "_You_ have got a hundred a year, ma'am," says I,
"_you_ got a house: upon my soul and honour this is the first I ever
heard of it, and I'll tell you what, ma'am," says I (and it cut her
_pretty sharply_ too), "as you've got it, _you'd better go and live in
it_. I've got quite enough to do with my own house, and every penny of
my own income."

Upon this speech the old lady said nothing, but she gave a screech loud
enough to be heard from here to York, and down she fell—kicking and
struggling in a regular fit.

                  *       *       *       *       *

I did not see Mrs. Stubbs for some days after this, and the girls used
to come down to meals, and never speak; going up again and stopping with
their mother. At last, one day, both of them came in very solemn to my
study, and Eliza, the eldest, said, "Robert, mamma has paid you our
board up to Michaelmas."

"She has," says I; for I always took precious good care to have it in
advance.

"She says, John, that on Michaelmas day we'll—we'll go away, John."

"Oh, she's going to her own house, is she, Lizzy? very good; she'll want
the furniture, I suppose, and that she may have, too, for I'm going to
sell the place myself;" and so _that_ matter was settled.

                  *       *       *       *       *

On Michaelmas day, and during these two months, I hadn't, I do believe,
seen my mother twice (once, about two o'clock in the morning, I woke and
found her sobbing over my bed). On Michaelmas day morning, Eliza comes
to me and says, "_John, they will come and fetch us at six this
evening._" Well, as this was the last day, I went and got the best goose
I could find (I don't think I ever saw a primer, or ate more hearty
myself), and had it roasted at three, with a good pudding afterwards;
and a glorious bowl of punch. "Here's a health to you, dear girls," says
I, "and you, ma, and good luck to all three, and as you've not eaten a
morsel, I hope you wont object to a glass of punch. It's the old stuff,
you know, ma'am, that that Waters sent to my father fifteen years ago."

Six o'clock came, and with it came a fine barouche, as I live! Captain
Waters was on the box (it was his coach); that old thief, Bates, jumped
out, entered my house, and before I could say Jack Robinson, whipped off
mamma to the carriage, the girls followed, just giving me a hasty shake
of the hand, and as mamma was helped in, Mary Waters, who was sitting
inside, flung her arms round her, and then round the girls, and the
Doctor, who acted footman, jumped on the box, and off they went; taking
no more notice of _me_ than if I'd been a nonentity.

There's the picture of the whole business: That's mamma and Miss Waters
sitting kissing each other in the carriage, with the two girls in the
back seat; Waters driving (a precious bad driver he is, too); and that's
me, standing at the garden door, and whistling. You can't see Mary
Malowney; the old fool is crying behind the garden gate: she went off
next day along with the furniture; and I got into that precious scrape
which I shall mention next.

                            SEPTEMBER.                            [1839.

[Illustration]


                        HARVEY _versus_ JARVEY.
                           A MOLONCHOLY CASE.

 Well, here's a fine beginning all along of these here Harveys;
 Sure-ly they're getting the whip-hand of all us honest jarvies;
 To rob us of our fare is like depriving us of vittle,
 And giving us no meat to cut, but leaving us a Whittle.
 The watermen are all in tears,—it's fitting you should know,
 That the stopping of our going is to them a tale of "Wo;"
 And the 'osses stands, quite sad to see, besides the crib in vain,
 And wonders whether they shall ever taste a bit again.
 Now they're gettin' out of natur, for their raws is all a healing,
 And soon they'll be onsenseless brutes, without a bit of feeling.
 Or else they'll pine away so fast, the knackers scarce will skin 'em,
 For they miss the bits of thrashing just to keep the life within 'em,
 And the cuts that makes 'em lively, arter waiting in the street,
 For 'tis but being on the stand that keeps 'em on their feet.
 Now, blow'd if I can understand this here licensious day.
 Unless it means the taking all our licence quite away.
 And then, again, for characters, how very hard they use 'em,
 Both them as vainly strive to find, and those who'd gladly lose 'em.
 The cads look quite cadaverous, to think there's such a fuss
 At their stepping from the treadmill, to the step behind a 'bus.
 But here's the greatest grief, and sure it makes one choke to put on
 A libel to one's neck, just like cheap cag-mag-scrag of mutton;
 There's nothing stares us in the face but rueful ruination,
 So there's my ticket, and I'll seek some more genteel vocation.

7. Jerusalem demolished by Titus, A.D. 70.

[Illustration:

  _Land Sharks and Sea Gulls._
]

[Illustration]

                   Old Isaac's so given to bite us,
                     In bargains whenever we meet,
                   That I wish we'd a similar Titus
                     To batter down Holywell Street.

23. College of Physicians incorporated, 1518.

                'Twere fair revenge to give no quarter,
                But pound the doctors in their mortar.


                      SEPTEMBER.—PLUCKING A GOOSE.

After my papa's death, as he left me no money, and only a little land, I
put my estate into an auctioneer's hands, and determined to amuse my
solitude with a trip to some of our fashionable watering-places. My
house was now a desert to me. I need not say how the departure of my
dear parent, and her children, left me sad and lonely.

Well, I had a little ready money, and, for the estate, expected a couple
of thousand pounds. I had a good military-looking person; for though I
had absolutely cut the old North-Bungays (indeed, after my affair with
Waters, Colonel Craw hinted to me, in the most friendly manner, that I
had better resign), though I had left the army, I still retained the
rank of Captain; knowing the advantages attendant upon that title, in a
watering-place tour.

Captain Stubbs became a great dandy at Cheltenham, Harrogate, Bath,
Leamington, and other places. I was a good whist and billiard-player; so
much so, that in many of these towns the people used to refuse, at last,
to play with me, knowing how far I was their superior. Fancy, my
surprise, about five years after the Portsmouth affair, when strolling
one day up the High Street, in Leamington, my eyes lighted upon a young
man, whom I remembered in a certain butcher's yard, and elsewhere—no
other, in fact, than Dobble. He, too, was dressed _en militaire_, with a
frogged coat and spurs; and was walking with a showy-looking,
Jewish-faced, black-haired lady, glittering with chains and rings, with
a green bonnet, and a bird of Paradise—a lilac shawl, a yellow gown,
pink silk stockings, and light blue shoes. Three children, and a
handsome footman, were walking behind her, and the party, not seeing me,
entered the Royal Hotel together.

I was known, myself, at the Royal, and calling one of the waiters,
learned the names of the lady and gentleman. He was Captain Dobble, the
son of the rich army clothier, Dobble (Dobble, Hobble, and Co., of Pall
Mall); the lady was a Mrs. Manasseh, widow of an American Jew, living
quietly at Leamington with her children, but possessed of an immense
property. There's no use to give one's self out to be an absolute
pauper, so the fact is, that I myself went everywhere with the character
of a man of very large means. My father had died, leaving me immense
sums of money, and landed estates—ah! I was the gentleman then, the real
gentleman, and everybody was too happy to have me at table.

Well, I came the next day, and left a card for Dobble, with a note: he
neither returned my visit, nor answered my note. The day after, however,
I met him with the widow, as before; and, going up to him, very kindly
seized him by the hand, and swore I was—as really was the case—charmed
to see him. Dobble hung back, to my surprise, and I do believe the
creature would have cut me, if he dared; but I gave him a frown, and
said—

"What, Dobble, my boy, don't you recollect old Stubbs, and our adventure
with the butcher's daughters, ha?"

Dobble gave me a sickly kind of grin, and said, "Oh! ah! yes! It is—yes!
it is, I believe, Captain Stubbs."

"An old comrade, madam, of Captain Dobble's, and one who has heard so
much, and seen so much, of your ladyship, that he must take the liberty
of begging his friend to introduce him."

Dobble was obliged to take the hint; and Captain Stubbs was duly
presented to Mrs. Manasseh; the lady was as gracious as possible: and
when, at the end of the walk, we parted, she said, "she hoped Captain
Dobble would bring me to her apartments that evening, where she expected
a few friends." Everybody, you see, knows everybody at Leamington; and
I, for my part, was well known as a retired officer of the army; who, on
his father's death, had come into seven thousand a year. Dobble's
arrival had been subsequent to mine, but putting up, as he did, at the
Royal Hotel, and dining at the ordinary there with the widow, he had
made his acquaintance before I had. I saw, however, that if I allowed
him to talk about me, as he could, I should be compelled to give up all
my hopes and pleasures at Leamington; and so I determined to be short
with him. As soon as the lady had gone into the hotel, my friend Dobble
was for leaving me likewise; but I stopped him, and said, "Mr. Dobble, I
saw what you meant just now: you wanted to cut me, because, forsooth, I
did not choose to fight a duel at Portsmouth; now look you, Dobble, I am
no hero, but I'm not such a coward as you—and you know it. You are a
very different man to deal with from Waters; and _I will fight_ this
time."

Not, perhaps, that I would: but after the business of the butcher, I
knew Dobble to be as great a coward as ever lived: and there never was
any harm in threatening, for you know you are not obliged to stick to it
afterwards. My words had their effect upon Dobble, who stuttered, and
looked red, and then declared, he never had the slightest intention of
passing me by; so we became friends, and his mouth was stopped.

He was very thick with the widow: but that lady had a very capacious
heart, and there were a number of other gentlemen who seemed equally
smitten with her. "Look at that Mrs. Manasseh," said a gentleman (it was
droll, _he_ was a Jew, too), sitting at dinner by me; "she is old and
ugly, and yet because she has money, all the men are flinging themselves
at her."

"She has money, has she?"

"Eighty thousand pounds, and twenty thousand for each of her children. I
know it _for a fact_," said the strange gentleman. "I am in the law, and
we, of our faith, you know, know pretty well what the great families
amongst us are worth."

"Who was Mr. Manasseh?"

"A man of enormous wealth—a tobacco-merchant—West Indies; a fellow of no
birth, however; and who, between ourselves, married a woman that is not
much better than she should be. My dear sir," whispered he, "she is
always in love—now it is with that Captain Dobble; last week it was
somebody else; and it may be you next week, if—ha! ha! ha!—you are
disposed to enter the lists."

"I wouldn't, for _my_ part, have the woman with twice her money."

What did it matter to me, whether the woman was good or not, provided
she was rich? My course was quite clear. I told Dobble all that this
gentleman had informed me, and being a pretty good hand at making a
story, I made the widow appear _so_ bad, that the poor fellow was quite
frightened, and fairly quitted the field. Ha! ha! I'm dashed if I did
not make him believe that Mrs. Manasseh had _murdered_ her last husband.

I played my game so well, thanks to the information that my friend the
lawyer had given me, that, in a month, I had got the widow to show a
most decided partiality for me. I sat by her at dinner; I drank with her
at the Wells; I rode with her; I danced with her; and at a pic-nic to
Kenilworth, where we drank a good deal of champagne, I actually popped
the question, and was accepted. In another month, Robert Stubbs, Esq.,
led to the altar Leah, widow of the late Z. Manasseh, Esq., of St.
Kitt's!

                  *       *       *       *       *

We drove up to London in her comfortable chariot; the children and
servants following in a post-chaise. I paid, of course, for everything;
and until our house in Berkeley Square was painted, we stopped at
Stevens's Hotel.

                  *       *       *       *       *

My own estate had been sold, and the money was lying at a bank, in the
city. About three days after our arrival, as we took our breakfast in
the hotel, previous to a visit to Mrs. Stubbs's banker, where certain
little transfers were to be made, a gentleman was introduced, who, I saw
at a glance, was of my wife's persuasion.

He looked at Mrs. Stubbs, and made a bow. "Perhaps it will be convenient
to you to pay this little bill, one hundred and fifty-two poundsh?"

"My love," says she, "will you pay this? It is a trifle which I had
really forgotten." "My soul!" said I, "I have really not the money in
the house."

"Vel, denn, Captain Shtubbsh," says he, "I must do my duty—and arrest
you—here is the writ! Tom, keep the door!"—My wife fainted—the children
screamed, and I—fancy my condition, as I was obliged to march off to a
sponging house, along with a horrid sheriff's officer!

[Illustration]

 1839.]                             OCTOBER.

[Illustration]


                     "OTHELLO'S OCCUPATION'S GONE."

1. Abolition of arrest on suspicion of debt, 1838.

[Illustration:

  The ghost of a "Bailey.'

  "Remember thee? Ay, thou poor ghost!"
]

[Illustration:

  Share and share alike.
]

           ——Right little grieve I
     To take my leave of all the tribe of Levi!
     I care not now whom I may chance to meet
     In Chancery Lane or Carey Street;
     Gentile or Jew, or neither, or what not,
     The bailiff's occupation's gone to pot,
     And all their sport, thank common sense, is over;
     Unless you find a man to swear,
     That he heard another man declare,
     That as he was walking the streets one day,
     He met with Jones, who was heard to say,
     That Smith intended to run away,
     Across the straits of Dover.
     But, any way, it does seem rather funny
     To lock a man within four walls, and bid him seek for money.
     There's no occasion now for me to hide,
     Tho' once I was a deeply versed _court guide_;
     I fear not now a single rap,
     Nor startle at a tap.
     From my boot's sole to my hat crown,
     I'll have it all set down;
     As to my tailleur, his suit's a failure,
     And talking of a writ, quite a mis-fit;
     So, spite his measures, I'll take my pleasures;
     And, since for debt I need not run away,
     Shall I, like vulgar traders, stoop to pay?
                                           Nay!

10. Dividends due.

[Illustration:

  A _Prescription_.
]

                Philosophers sagely declare,
                Without reservation or stealth,
                That the source of true happiness here
                Is an equal division of wealth.

20. Battle of Navarino, 1827.


                 OCTOBER.—MARS AND VENUS IN OPPOSITION.

I shall not describe my feelings when I found myself in a cage in
Cursitor-street, instead of that fine house in Berkeley Square, which
was to have been mine as the husband of Mrs. Manasseh. What a palace!—in
an odious, dismal street leading from Chancery Lane,—a hideous Jew boy
opened the second of three doors; and shut it when Mr. Nabb and I
(almost fainting) had entered: then he opened the third door, and then I
was introduced to a filthy place, called a coffee-room, which I
exchanged for the solitary comfort of a little dingy back-parlour, where
I was left for a while to brood over my miserable fate. Fancy the change
between this and Berkeley Square! Was I, after all my pains, and
cleverness, and perseverance, cheated at last? Had this Mrs. Manasseh
been imposing upon me, and were the words of the wretch I met at the
_table-d'hôte_ at Leamington, only meant to mislead me and take me in? I
determined to send for my wife, and know the whole truth. I saw at once
that I had been the victim of an infernal plot, and that the carriage,
the house in town, the West India fortune, were only so many lies which
I had blindly believed. It was true the debt was but a hundred and fifty
pounds: and I had two thousand at my bankers. But was the loss of _her_
£80,000 nothing? Was the destruction of my hopes nothing?—The accursed
addition to my family of a Jewish wife, and three Jewish children,
nothing? And all these I was to support out of my two thousand pounds. I
had better have stopped at home, with my mamma and sisters, whom I
really did love, and who produced me eighty pounds a-year.

I had a furious interview with Mrs. Stubbs; and when I charged her, the
base wretch! with cheating me, like a brazen serpent, as she was, she
flung back the cheat in my teeth, and swore I had swindled her. Why did
I marry her, when she might have had twenty others? She only took me,
she said, because I had twenty thousand pounds. I _had_ said I possessed
that sum; but in love, you know, and war, all's fair.

We parted quite as angrily as we met; and I cordially vowed that when I
had paid the debt into which I had been swindled by her, I would take my
£2,000, and depart to some desert island; or, at the very least, to
America, and never see her more, or any of her Israelitish brood. There
was no use in remaining in the sponging-house (for I knew that there
were such things as detainers, and that where Mrs. Stubbs owed a hundred
pounds, she might owe a thousand), so I sent for Mr. Nabb, and tendering
him a cheque for £150, and his costs, requested to be let out forthwith.
"Here, fellow," said I, "is a cheque on Child's for your paltry sum."

"It may be a shech on Shild's," says Mr. Nabb, "but I should be a baby
to let you out on such a paper as dat."

"Well," said I, "Child's is but a step from this; you may go and get the
cash,—just giving me an acknowledgment."

Nabb drew out the acknowledgment with great punctuality, and set off for
the Bankers, whilst I prepared myself for departure from this abominable
prison.

He smiled as he came in. "Well," said I, "you have touched your money;
and now, I must tell you, that you are the most infernal rogue and
extortioner I ever met with."

"O no, mishter Shtubbsh," says he, grinning still, "dere is som greater
roag dan me,—mosh greater."

"Fellow," says I, "don't stand grinning before a gentleman; but give me
my hat and cloak, and let me leave your filthy den."

"Shtop, Shtubbsh," says he, not even Mistering me this time, "here ish a
letter, vich you had better read."

I opened the letter: something fell to the ground:—it was my cheque.

The letter ran thus: "Messrs. Child and Co. present their compliments to
Captain Stubbs, and regret that they have been obliged to refuse payment
of the enclosed, having been served this day with an attachment by
Messrs. Solomonson and Co., which compels them to retain Captain
Stubbs's balance of £2010 11_s._ 6_d._ until the decision of the suit of
Solomonson v. Stubbs.

"Fleet Street."

"You see," says Mr. Nabb, as I read this dreadful letter, "you see,
Shtubbsh, dere vas two debts,—a littel von, and a big von. So dey
arrested you for de littel von, and attashed your money for de big von."

                  *       *       *       *       *

Don't laugh at me for telling this story: if you knew what tears are
blotting over the paper as I write it; if you knew that for weeks after
I was more like a madman than a sane man,—a madman in the Fleet Prison,
where I went, instead of to the desert island. What had I done to
deserve it? Hadn't I always kept an eye to the main chance? Hadn't I
lived economically, and not like other young men? Had I ever been known
to squander or give away a single penny? No! I can lay my hand on my
heart, and, thank Heaven, say, No! Why—why was I punished so?

Let me conclude this miserable history. Seven months—my wife saw me once
or twice, and then dropped me altogether—I remained in that fatal place.
I wrote to my dear mamma, begging her to sell her furniture, but got no
answer. All my old friends turned their backs upon me. My action went
against me—I had not a penny to defend it. Solomonson proved my wife's
debt, and seized my two thousand pounds.—As for the detainer against me,
I was obliged to go through the court for the relief of insolvent
debtors. I passed through it, and came out a beggar. But, fancy the
malice of that wicked Stiffelkind; he appeared in court as my creditor
for £3, with sixteen years' interest, at five per cent., for a PAIR OF
TOP-BOOTS. The old thief produced them in court, and told the whole
story—Lord Cornwallis, the detection, the pumping, and all.

Commissioner Dubobwig was very funny about it. "So Doctor Swishtail
would not pay you for the boots, eh, Mr. Stiffelkind?"

"No; he said, ven I ask him for payment, dey was ordered by a yong boy,
and I ought to have gone to his schoolmaster."

"What, then, you came on a _bootless_ errand, eh, sir?" (A laugh.)

"Bootless! no, sare. I brought de boots back vid me; how de devil else
could I show dem to you?" (Another laugh.)

"You've never _soled_ 'em since, Mr. Tickleshins?"

"I never vood sell dem; I svore I never vood, on porpus to be revenged
on dat Stobbs."

"What, your wound has never been _healed_, eh?"

"Vat do you mean vid your bootless errants, and your soling and healing?
I tell you I have done vat I svore to do; I have exposed him at school,
I have broak off a marriage for him, ven he vould have had twenty
tousand pound, and now I have showed him up in a court of justice; dat
is vat I ave done, and dat's enough." And then the old wretch went down,
whilst everybody was giggling and staring at poor me—as if I was not
miserable enough already.

"This seems the dearest pair of boots you ever had in your life, Mr.
Stubbs," said Commissioner Dubobwig, very archly, and then he began to
inquire about the rest of my misfortunes.

In the fulness of my heart I told him the whole of them; how Mr.
Solomonson the attorney had introduced me to the rich widow, Mrs.
Manasseh, who had fifty thousand pounds, and an estate in the West
Indies. How I was married, and arrested on coming to town, and cast in
an action for two thousand pounds, brought against me by this very
Solomonson for my wife's debts.

"Stop," says a lawyer in the court. "Is this woman a showy black-haired
woman, with one eye? very often drunk, with three children—Solomonson,
short, with red hair?"

"Exactly so," says I, with tears in my eyes.

"That woman has married _three men_ within the last two years. One in
Ireland, and one at Bath. A Solomonson is, I believe, her husband, and
they both are off for America ten days ago."

"But why did you not keep your £2000?" said the lawyer.

"Sir, they attached it."

"O! well, we may pass you; you have been unlucky, Mr. Stubbs, but it
seems as if the biter had been bit in this affair."

"No," said Mr. Dubobwig, "Mr. Stubbs is the victim of a FATAL
ATTACHMENT."


                            POETRY AT SIGHT.

A remarkably successful operation has just been performed by Mr. Curtis,
on the eyes of an elderly lady, who had been blind and deaf from her
birth. The following letter to her niece has been sent to us by her
friends, to show the rapidity of her literary acquirements, immediately
on her attainment of the power of vision; and such of our readers as can
fancy themselves deaf will certainly see it to consist of capital
rhymes.

        Dear Dolly, I'll thank you to send the cocoa,
        And Susan, who brings it, shall take back your boa.—
        Pray, tell Doctor Bleed'em I've got a sad cough;
        I caught it while watching young Hodge at the plough;
        I thought the day fine and was simple enough
        My umbrella to leave, so got wet through and through,
        For it came down in torrents; your poor aunt was caught
        In the rain, and I afterwards sat in a draught.
        This made me much worse, but experience I bought,
        And I'll never more trust to the sunshine and drought!
        Well, I made myself dry, and I sat down to tea:
        Of the good that it did me you'd form no idea.
        But I quite hate the country, the weather's so rough,
        So you'll see me, dear, soon in your little borough.
        I hope, after all, that my cold will be trivial—
        But still you may send me that stuff in the vial—
        In the kitchen you'll find it, just over the trough.
        Oh, my cough! oh, my cough! it all comes of the plough.


                          A SETTLER'S LETTER.

The Emigration Committee have thought it right to give publicity to the
following very intelligent letter, lately written by a settler to his
mother, on account of the valuable statistical information it contains.

                             Catchum's Shallow on the little Red River
                                   Arkensaw Stait April 1838

  MY DERE MUTHER,—Yer mustent wunder if you havnt herd of me for sume
  time, but grate grefe is dumb as Shaxpire sais, and I was advised to
  hop my twig and leaf old ingland, witch indede I was verry
  sorrorful, but now I am thanks gudnes saf, and in amerrykey. i ardly
  no ware miself, but the hed of this will tel my tail. I ham a
  sqwatter in the far wurst, about ½ a-mile this side sundown, an if i
  ad gone mutch father i should av found nothin but son, an no nite at
  all. Yu kno how the hummeggrating Agent tolde me that if peepel
  cudnt liv in Sent Gileses amerrykey was capitle to dy in; besides
  ses he if youre not verry nere you can ade yure mother in distres,
  so i went aborde a skip wat was going to Noo Orlines. Ive herd
  peepel tawk abowt rodes at C but the rodes on the attalantick is the
  verry ruffest i iver rode on and it was very long an very cold an we
  had nothing 2 heat hardly, but we founde a ded rat in a warter cask
  witch the flavur was grately increased thareby.

  at last we cam to the arbur at the citty of Noo Orlines witch is all
  under the bottum of the top of the rivver and we ad a ankering to go
  a-shore. I ad no idear as the rivers was so hi in this contry, but
  as the assent is so verry esy i didn't fele it at al. The noo
  orlines peepel is odd fishis and not at all commun plaice; wen all
  the peepel in the stretes is musterd it is a pepper an sault
  poppulashun, there is blak wites an wite blaks an a sorte of mixt
  peepel caled quadruunts because they are of fore colers blak, an
  wite, an wite blaks, and blak wites. Has the rivver is so verry hi
  it is alwys hi water, an the munnifold advantiges of the citty
  dipends on the gudnes of its banks. there is loks in em to let the
  water out and keys to kepe it in. munny here is very common and is
  cald sentse, and evvery thing is cheep in Noo Orlines 5 dollers
  bills bein only worth 2 dollers. We went up the rivver in a large
  bote like a noise ark only more promiscus. the current acount was
  aginst us it dont turn and turn agen like at putny bridg, and as it
  runs alwys won way i wunder it dont run away altogethir. Thire is no
  towns nor tailer shops nor palisses as I expectorated there wood be.
  the wood was all quite wilde not a bit of tame no ware nor no sines
  of the blessedniss of civilazashun as jales an jin shops nor no
  kitching gardins nor fields nor ouses nor lanes nor alleys nor gates
  nothin but alleygators. after a grate dale of settlin I settled to
  settle as abuv ware yu will rite to me. These staits is caled the
  united staits becawse theire mails and femails all united. there's
  six of them wimmin staits. 2 Carrolinas, Miss Sourry, Miss Sippy,
  Louesa Anna, an Vargina, all the rest is mails. i have sene no
  cannibels an verry few ingins besides steam ingins they're quite
  unhedducated and dont employ no tailers. I dont like fammin mutch
  but praps I shal wen i get used to it, tho its very ilconvenient at
  furst. i am obliged to wurk very ard and if I have to chop my one
  wood much longer I have determined to cut my stick.

[Illustration:

  A Settler.
]

  Dere muther, i think i shud be more cumfurtable if I had a few
  trifels witch you culd bye me, if yew wud onley sel sumthing and
  send me all the bils partickular, and I'l be sure to owe it you—
  namly sum needils and thred, and sum odd buttens, but thems of
  little use without you send me sum shirts, and a waistcote, and
  upper cote, to put em on, when those tumbles off thats on when you
  sends em, and sum brads, and some hammers do drive em with, and a
  spade an a pikax, an a saw, and some fish hooks, and gunpowdr, an
  sum shot, witch they wil be of the gratest conveniency, if you can
  send me a gun. likewis som stockins, an shues and other hardwares,
  only its no use to send me any bank nots, for my nerest naybours is
  sum ingun wagwams abuve 70 miles of, and I cudnt get change thare,
  so dont forgit some led, and some bullit moldes, for some blak
  fellers has been fishin close by, jist within 10 miles and I wants
  to have a pop at em with luv to all yore dutiful sone

                                                        SAM. STROLLER.

                            NOVEMBER.                             [1839.

[Illustration]


                     THE JOINT STOCK SUICIDE CLUB.

[Sidenote: Put no
           faith in
           false
           Predictions,
           ☍ ♒ ♀ ♂
           Patient
           bear the
           worst
           Inflictions.
           Fog or
           SUNSHINE,
           [Illustration]
           time will
           tell;
           Gentle Reader,
           Fare thee well.]

         Brothers! support me in my desperate duty!
         I first propose to all a cup of Rue-tea,
         While I recite once more the various ways
         Our club allows to terminate our days.
                         ————————————
       We recommend strongly steamboat trips
         To those who are tired of their wives;
       For it's better to scald to death at once
         Than pass in hot water your lives.

       The club prescribe a railroad ride,
         To such as are bent on marriages;
       If they're looking for sweet, 'tis like they'll meet
         A _Jam_ between two carriages.

       Or take your place when the coaches race,
         And an opposition rages,
       It's a pleasanter trick to be popp'd off quick,
         Than be kill'd by lingering stages.

       But we wish all poets to try their pens
         On a work of fun and fancy;
       They'll hang on a hook, ere they finish their book,
         In a fit of _neck_-romancy.

       Now a dismal band, let us seek the Strand,
         From Waterloo to jump,
       And we'll leap from the piers, 'mid the barges' _tiers_,
         To show that our club's a trump.

[Illustration]

23. First balloon ass-sent, 1782.

               I wonder which will be the last—don't you?

29. Insurrection of the Poles, 1830.

              Paupers proclaim, so dignified their stations,
              The shears a trespass on the rights of nations.

[Illustration:

  _A Collection of National Hairs, with variations._
]

[Illustration]


                   NOVEMBER.—A GENERAL POST DELIVERY.

I was a free man when I went out of the Court; but I was a beggar—I,
Captain Stubbs, of the bold North-Bungays, did not know where I could
get a bed or a dinner.

As I was marching sadly down Portugal Street, I felt a hand on my
shoulder, and a rough voice which I knew well.

"Vell, Mr. Stobbs, have I not kept my bromise? I told you dem boots
would be your ruin."

I was much too miserable to reply; and only cast up my eyes towards the
roofs of the houses, which I could not see for the tears.

"Vat! you begin to gry and blobber like a shild? you vood marry, vood
you, and noting vood do for you but a vife vid monny—ha, ha—but you vere
de pigeon, and she vas de grow. She has plocked you, too, pretty vell—
eh? ha! ha!"

"Oh, Mr. Stiffelkind," said I, "don't laugh at my misery; she has not
left me a single shilling under heaven. And I shall starve—I do believe
I shall starve." And I began to cry fit to break my heart.

"Starf! stoff and nonsense—you vil never die of starfing—you vil die of
_hanging_, I tink, ho! ho! and it is moch easier vay too." I didn't say
a word, but cried on, till everybody in the street turned round and
stared.

"Come, come," said Stiffelkind, "do not gry, Gaptain Stobbs—it is not
goot for a Gaptain to gry, ha! ha! Dere, come vid me, and you shall have
a dinner, and a bregfast too—vich shall gost you nothing, until you can
bay vid your earnings."

And so this curious old man, who had persecuted me all through my
prosperity, grew compassionate towards me in my ill-luck: and took me
home with him as he promised. "I saw your name among de Insolvents—and I
vowed, you know, to make you repent dem boots. Dere now, it is done and
forgotten, look you. Here, Betty, Bettchen, make de spare bed, and put a
clean knife and fork; Lort Cornvallis is come to dine vid me."

I lived with this strange old man for six weeks. I kept his books, and
did what little I could to make myself useful: carrying about boots and
shoes, as if I had never borne his Majesty's commission. He gave me no
money, but he fed and lodged me comfortably. The men and boys used to
laugh, and call me General, and Lord Cornwallis, and all sorts of
nicknames—and old Stiffelkind made a thousand new ones for me.

One day, I can recollect—one miserable day, as I was polishing on the
trees a pair of boots of Mr. Stiffelkind's manufacture, the old
gentleman came into the shop with a lady on his arm.

"Vere is Gaptain Stobbs," says he; "vere is dat ornament to his
Majesty's service?"

I came in from the back shop, where I was polishing the boots, with one
of them in my hand.

"Look, my dear," says he, "here is an old friend of yours, his
Excellency Lord Cornvallis! Who would have thought such a nobleman vood
turn shoe-black? Gaptain Stobbs, here is your former flame, my dear
niece, Miss Grotty. How could you, Magdalen, ever leaf soch a lof of a
man? Shake hands vid her, Gaptain;—dere, never mind de blacking:" but
Miss drew back.

"I never shake hands with a _shoe-black_," says she, mighty
contemptuous.

"Bah! my lof, his fingers von't soil you. Don't you know he has just
been _vite-vashed_?"

"I wish, uncle," says she, "you would not leave me with such low
people."

"Low, because he cleans boots? de Gaptain prefers _pumps_ to boots, I
tink, ha! ha!"

"Captain, indeed! a nice Captain," says Miss Crutty, snapping her
fingers in my face, and walking away: "a Captain, who has had his nose
pulled? ha! ha!"—And how could I help it? it wasn't by my own _choice_
that that ruffian Waters took such liberties with me; didn't I show how
averse I was to all quarrels by refusing altogether his challenge?—but
such is the world: and thus the people at Stiffelkind's used to tease me
until they drove me almost mad.

At last, he came home one day more merry and abusive than ever.
"Gaptain," says he, "I have goot news for you—a goot place. Your
lortship vil not be able to geep your garridge, but you vil be
gomfortable, and serve his Majesty."

"Serve his Majesty!" says I. "Dearest Mr. Stiffelkind, have you got me a
place under Government?"

"Yes, and someting better still—not only a place, but a uniform—yes,
Gabdain Stobbs, a _red goat_."

"A red coat! I hope you don't think I would demean myself by entering
the ranks of the army? I am a gentleman, Mr. Stiffelkind—I can never—no,
I never."

"No, I know you will never—you are too great a goward, ha! ha!—though
dis is a red goat, and a place where you must give some _hard knocks_
too, ha! ha!—do you gomprehend?—and you shall be a general, instead of a
gabtain—ha! ha!"

"A general in a red coat! Mr. Stiffelkind?"

"Yes, a GENERAL BOSTMAN! ha! ha! I have been vid your old friend,
Bunting, and he has an uncle in the Post-office, and he has got you de
place—eighteen shillings a veek, you rogue, and your goat. You must not
oben any of de letters, you know."

And so it was—I, Robert Stubbs, Esquire, became the vile thing he named—
a general postman!

                  *       *       *       *       *

I was so disgusted with Stiffelkind's brutal jokes, which were now more
brutal than ever, that when I got my place in the Post-office I never
went near the fellow again—for though he had done me a favour in keeping
me from starvation, he certainly had done it in a very rude,
disagreeable manner, and showed a low and mean spirit in _shoving_ me
into such a degraded place as that of postman. But what had I to do? I
submitted to fate, and for three years or more, Robert Stubbs, of the
North-Bungay Fencibles, was——

I wonder nobody recognised me. I lived in daily fear the first year;
but, afterwards, grew accustomed to my situation, as all great men will
do, and wore my red coat as naturally as if I had been sent into the
world only for the purpose of being a letter carrier.

I was first in the Whitechapel district, where I stayed nearly three
years, when I was transferred to Jermyn Street and Duke Street—famous
places for lodgings. I suppose I left a hundred letters at a house in
the latter street, where lived some people who must have recognised me
had they but once chanced to look at me.

You see, that when I left Sloffem, and set out in the gay world, my
mamma had written to me a dozen times at least, but I never answered
her, for I knew she wanted money, and I detest writing. Well, she
stopped her letters, finding she could get none from me: but when I was
in the Fleet, as I told you, I wrote repeatedly to my dear mamma, and
was not a little nettled at her refusing to notice me in my distress,
which is the very time one most wants notice.

Stubbs is not an uncommon name; and though I saw MRS. STUBBS on a little
bright brass plate, in Duke Street, and delivered so many letters to the
lodgers in her house, I never thought of asking who she was, or whether
she was my relation, or not.

One day the young woman who took in the letters had not got change, and
she called her mistress;—an old lady in a poke bonnet came out of the
parlour, and put on her spectacles, and looked at the letter, and
fumbled in her pocket for eight-pence, and apologized to the postman for
keeping him waiting; and when I said, "Never mind, ma'am, it's no
trouble," the old lady gave a start, and then she pulled off her
spectacles, and staggered back; and then she began muttering, as if
about to choke; and then she gave a great screech, and flung herself
into my arms, and roared out, "MY SON! MY SON!"

"Law, mamma," said I, "is that you?" and I sat down on the hall bench
with her, and let her kiss me as much as ever she liked. Hearing the
whining and crying, down comes another lady from upstairs,—it was my
sister Eliza; and down come the lodgers. And the maid gets water, and
what not, and I was the regular hero of the group. I could not stay long
then, having my letters to deliver. But, in the evening, after
mail-time, I went back to my mamma and sister: and, over a bottle of
prime old Port, and a precious good leg of boiled mutton and turnips,
made myself pretty comfortable, I can tell you.


                BLARNEYHUM ASS-TROLOGICUM PRO ANNO 1839.

 GENTLE READER,—

Beware of false prophets, who predict of the times, which, but for thy
simplicity, would be for them "out of joint"—of the seasons, of which
they know not, save that they yield them a profitable harvest,—and of
the winds, for which they care not, so that they blow them good; but
turn from them awhile, and regard the Hieroglyphicum in Obscuro I here
set before thee, and the interpretation thereof; and, if it come not as
I predict, thou may'st guess the reason why. Unlucky planets rule the
State Kitchen; and the great kettle being filled by Aquarius, with Sol
in opposition, an unfriendly boil is produced, which maketh the place so
hot that the Cooks find it hard to stay within, though loth to go out.
Moreover, being of one mind as to the making of _a mess_, but differing
as to the manner thereof, they have fallen to fighting, to settle the
question, and are all going to pot together. By a touch of my wand,
behold them transmogrified into a _Lamb's head_, served with a plentiful
dressing of strong _Durham_ mustard, a _little Jack_ clinging to the
side, as though he wished himself out of this pretty kettle of fish, and
a fowl, though, by his looks, no chicken, attempting his escape in the
form of a winged _Cupid_. He does not like his company, and has made his
bow—behold it in his hand. Another fish, more like a _Sir John_ than a
sturgeon, seems as though his berth was far from pleasant. The Mistress,
alarmed by the noise, comes to the window to see what is the matter; an
ancient Master Cook, from _Arthur's_, stands, ladle in hand, his fingers
itching to skim the scum off as it rises. An old Kitchen Maid, who,
though pensioned off, will still have a finger in every pie, hath been
stirring the fire with a worn-out _broom_-handle, (perchance she hath
slyly put in a pinch of gunpowder) and is now playing the part of
blow-bellows. She seemeth, by the satisfactionated curl of her nose, to
be happy to see them all in hot water.

Now, as to the application hereof, every man must judge for himself; but
of a verity it doth to me appear, that too many cooks will spoil any
broth. And, while I speak of cookery, let me advise thee as to thy
treatment of that which a departed wiseacre denominated the "worse than
useless root." If, rejecting his advice, none but this fruit will
content thee, let me counsel thee to follow my example—having well
roasted my Murphy, I take him "_cum grano salis_." Now, touching other
mundane matters, thou wilt herein find copious instructions, sage
predictions, and wholesome advice, on which thou mayest surely rely,
though I am no M.N.S., which can but mean Member of No Society.

                                                    Thine ever,
                                                        RIGDUM FUNNIDOS.

 1839.]                            DECEMBER.

[Illustration]


                           CHRISTMAS PIECES.
                        A SOLILOQUIAL CARE-ALL.

Here come December and the brats again! what pain! rushing like untamed
kittens o'er a cataract. Tables turn'd, bottles broke, cups crack'd—All
conspire to add to my distractions, to shew their skill in Christmas
pieces, and in fractions.

            How little dream'd I of the toil and trouble
            Which wait on those who dare to carry double!
            Why did I leave my life of singularity,
            In my excess of Christian love and charity?
            Too surely did I feel my courage falter
            At that sad step which led up to the altar.
            Since first I tied the matrimonial knot
            Each year has added to my luckless lot;
            I should not mind _one_ little babe, no more.
            But, _poínt du_ TWO, I don't want half a score;
            Yet still, in quick succession, lo! they rise,
            A pretty string of pains and penal-ties.

[Illustration:

  _Family Ties._
]

          From schoolmasters abroad the yearly bills
          Run high among life's unsurmounted _hills_,
          And pretty hillocks are those things call'd extras,
          At doubling which they're all so ambidextrous;
          Forgetting still, which greatly grieves my bowels,
          To send back silver forks, or spoons, or towels.
          Last, but not least, are those uncivil wars,
          Poetic license calls domestic jars,
          And which I find, though far from nice or fickle,
          Without exception, yield the worst of pickle.

[Illustration]

[Illustration]


               DECEMBER.—"THE WINTER OF OUR DISCONTENT."

Mamma had kept the house in Duke Street for more than two years. I
recollected some of the chairs and tables, from dear old Squiggle, and
the bowl in which I had made that famous rum-punch, the evening she went
away, which she and my sisters left untouched, and I was obliged to
drink after they were gone; but that's not to the purpose.

Think of my sister Mary's luck! That chap, Waters, fell in love with
her, and married her; and she now keeps her carriage, and lives in state
near Squiggle. I offered to make it up with Waters; but he bears malice,
and never will see or speak to me. He had the impudence, too, to say
that he took in all letters for mamma at Squiggle; and that, as mine
were all begging letters, he burned them, and never said a word to her
concerning them. He allowed mamma fifty pounds a year, and, if she were
not such a fool, she might have had three times as much; but the old
lady was high and mighty, forsooth, and would not be beholden, even to
her own daughter, for more than she actually wanted. Even this fifty
pounds she was going to refuse; but when I came to live with her, of
course I wanted pocket money as well as board and lodging, and so I had
the fifty pounds for _my_ share, and eked out with it as well as I
could.

Old Bates and the Captain, between them, gave mamma a hundred pounds
when she left me (she had the deuce's own luck, to be sure—much more
than ever fell to _me_, I know), and as she said she _would_ try and
work for her living, it was thought best to take a house and let
lodgings, which she did. Our first and second floor paid us four guineas
a week, on an average; and the front parlour and attic made forty pounds
more. Mamma and Eliza used to have the front attic; but _I_ took that,
and they slept in the servants' bed room. Lizzy had a pretty genius for
work, and earned a guinea a week that way; so that we had got nearly two
hundred a year over the rent to keep house with,—and we got on pretty
well. Besides, women eat nothing; my women didn't care for meat for days
together sometimes,—so that it was only necessary to dress a good steak
or so for me.

Mamma would not think of my continuing in the Post-office. She said her
dear John, her husband's son, her gallant soldier, and all that, should
remain at home, and be a gentleman—which I was, certainly, though I
didn't find fifty pounds a year very much to buy clothes and be a
gentleman upon; to be sure, mother found me shirts and linen, so that
_that_ wasn't in the fifty pounds. She kicked a little at paying the
washing too; but she gave in at last, for I was her dear John, you know;
and I'm blest if I could not make her give me the gown off her back.
Fancy! once she cut up a very nice rich black silk scarf, which my
sister Waters sent her, and made me a waistcoat and two stocks of it.
She was so _very_ soft, the old lady!

                  *       *       *       *       *

I'd lived in this way for five years or more, making myself content with
my fifty pounds a year (_perhaps_, I'd saved a little out of it; but
that's neither here nor there). From year's end to year's end I remained
faithful to my dear mamma, never leaving her except for a month or so in
summer, when a bachelor may take a trip to Gravesend or Margate, which
would be too expensive for a family. I say a bachelor, for the fact is,
I don't know whether I am married or not—never having heard a word since
of the scoundrelly Mrs. Stubbs.

I never went to the public house before meals; for, with my beggarly
fifty pounds, I could not afford to dine away from home; but there I had
my regular seat, and used to come home _pretty glorious_, I can tell
you. Then, bed till eleven; then, breakfast and the newspaper; then, a
stroll in Hyde Park or Saint James's; then, home at half-past three to
dinner, when I jollied, as I call it, for the rest of the day. I was my
mother's delight; and thus, with a clear conscience, I managed to live
on.

                  *       *       *       *       *

How fond she was of me, to be sure! Being sociable myself, and loving to
have my friends about me, we often used to assemble a company of as
hearty fellows as you would wish to sit down with, and keep the nights
up royally. "Never mind, my boys," I used to say, "send the bottle
round: mammy pays for all," as she did, sure enough; and sure enough we
punished her cellar too. The good old lady used to wait upon us, as if
for all the world she had been my servant, instead of a lady and my
mamma. Never used she to repine, though I often, as I must confess, gave
her occasion (keeping her up till four o'clock in the morning, because
she never could sleep until she saw her "dear Bob" in bed, and leading
her a sad anxious life). She was of such a sweet temper, the old lady,
that I think in the course of five years I never knew her in a passion,
except twice; and then with sister Lizzy, who declared I was ruining the
house, and driving the lodgers away, one by one. But mamma would not
hear of such envious spite on my sister's part. "Her Bob" was always
right, she said. At last Lizzy fairly retreated, and went to the
Waterses,—I was glad of it, for her temper was dreadful, and we used to
be squabbling from morning till night.

Ah, those _were_ jolly times! but ma was obliged to give up the
lodging-house at last—for, somehow, things went wrong after my sister's
departure—the nasty uncharitable people said, on account of _me_;
because I drove away the lodgers by smoking and drinking, and kicking up
noises in the house; and because mamma gave me so much of her money:—so
she did, but if she _would_ give it, you know, how could I help it?
Heigho! I wish I'd _kept_ it.

No such luck.—The business I thought was to last for ever; but at the
end of two years a smash came—shut up shop—sell off everything. Mamma
went to the Waterses: and, will you believe it, the ungrateful wretches
would not receive me! that Mary, you see, was _so_ disappointed at not
marrying me. Twenty pounds a year they allow, it is true; but what's
that for a gentleman? For twenty years I have been struggling manfully
to gain an honest livelihood, and, in the course of them, have seen a
deal of life, to be sure. I've sold segars and pocket-hand-kerchiefs at
the corners of streets; I've been a billiard-marker; I've been Director
(in the panic year) of the Imperial British Consolidated Mangle and
Drying Ground Company. I've been on the stage (for two years as an
actor, and about a month as a cad, when I was very low); I've been the
means of giving to the police of this empire some very valuable
information (about licensed victuallers, gentlemen's carts, and
pawnbrokers' names); I've been very nearly an officer again—that is, an
assistant to an officer of the Sheriff of Middlesex: it was my last
place.

On the last day of the year 1837, even _that_ game was up. It's a thing
that has very seldom happened to a gentleman, to be kicked out of a
sponging-house; but such was my case. Young Nabbs (who succeeded his
father) drove me ignominiously from his door, because I had charged a
gentleman in the coffee-rooms seven-and-sixpence for a glass of ale and
bread and cheese, the charge of the house being only six shillings. He
had the meanness to deduct the eighteen-pence from my wages, and,
because I blustered a bit, he took me by the shoulders and turned me
out—me, a gentleman, and, what is more, a poor orphan!

How I did rage and swear at him when I got out in the street!—There
stood he, the hideous Jew monster, at the double door, writhing under
the effect of my language. I had my revenge! Heads were thrust out of
every bar of his windows, laughing at him. A crowd gathered round me, as
I stood pounding him with my satire, and they evidently enjoyed his
discomfiture. I think the mob would have pelted the ruffian to death
(one or two of their missiles hit _me_, I can tell you), when a
policeman came up, and, in reply to a gentleman, who was asking what was
the disturbance, said, "Bless you, Sir, it's Lord Cornwallis." "Move on,
_Boots_," said the fellow to me, for, the fact is, my misfortunes and
early life are pretty well known—and so the crowd dispersed.

"What could have made that policeman call you Lord Cornwallis and
Boots?" said the gentleman, who seemed mightily amused, and had followed
me. "Sir," says I, "I am an unfortunate officer of the North Bungay
Fencibles, and I'll tell you willingly for a pint of beer." He told me
to follow him to his chambers at the Temple, which I did (a five pair
back), and there, sure enough, I had the beer; and told him this very
story you've been reading. You see he is what is called a literary man—
and sold my adventures for me to the booksellers: he's a strange chap;
and says they're _moral_.

                  *       *       *       *       *

I'm blest if I can see anything moral in them. I'm sure I ought to have
been more lucky through life, being so very wide awake. And yet here I
am, without a place, or even a friend, starving upon a beggarly twenty
pounds a year—not a single sixpence more, upon _my honour_.


                             ASCOT CUP DAY.
                       FROM THE RACING CALENDAR.

"Well, I never!—this the Great Western Railway: the Paddington Station?
What a beautiful place:—ugh! ugh! ugh!—and that's the engine: did I
ever!—What a funny noise it makes; and what elegant carriages—all
plate-glass and silk-lace!" Thus rattled a lively little matron, as fine
as a milliner's pattern-doll, to her dapper lord and master, as they
seated themselves _vis-à-vis_, in the nine-o'clock down train,
first-class, on the morning of the last anniversary of Ascot Cup Day.
Anon they were darting onwards for their destination, and again the
dame's loquacities were at high pressure. "It is charming, and that's
all about it: for all the world like travelling by balloon; and as free
from dust and dirt as if one was borne through the air. Why, we shall
get down, I _do_ declare, as clean as new pins." "No danger of being
soiled on _this_ line, marm," remarked a stout personage in nankeen
leggings, a wig, and a _very_ red face, "'cause why, we escape _Staines_
and avoid _Slough_, you know: ha! ha!"

At the end of five-and-forty minutes, bump, bump, bump, and a hissing,
as of a universe of boa-constrictors, were succeeded by the
interrogatory, from officials in green and much brass, of—"Now Windsor?"
and all the crew bound for the races descended _of course_. Then rose
the clamour of 'bus cads and go-cart touters—

               "Billingsgate eloquence, and, as I guess,
               The logic of the 'os coccygis;'"

when, after a scuffle, and some energetic demonstrations, our little
dame and second-self found themselves once more in company with the
gentleman in the leggings and red face. The trio were seated in a
lateral inconvenience on enormous wheels, the charioteer, with his
behind before them, urging to utmost speed a gaunt but sinewy bit of
blood, who flew onwards as if a herd of hungry wolves were at his
haunches. Our travellers were soon on the best of terms: good fellowship
generally results when people are thus _thrown together_. Windsor was
quickly reached, and as they turned the corner beyond the White Hart,
which leads to Ascot, an equipage at the door of the hostelry attracted,
by its splendour, the go-carter's attention. "That's L——'s carriage,"
said the married male; "he that cut such a dash last season; gave balls
to one half of London;"—"and _rifled_ the other," rejoined the man with
the rosy countenance: it was manifest that he was a wag. "A correct list
of all the wonderful high-bred horses, and how they will come in for
every heat during the day." "The modern Hercules, ladies and gentlemen;
_the_ modern Hercules: he will take and tie that ere donkey to this here
ladder, and balance the _as_tonishing _con_junction on the tip of his
nose. Waiting for a ha'penny, ladies and gentlemen; make it another
brown, and—up—he—goes." Such is the chorus of the Olympic song, chanted
what time Ascot celebrates her right-royal revels; but we tarry not for
the ladder, or _the staves_.

Through streets of _canvas_ caravanseras, all _soliciting_ their custom,
our _tria juncta_ reach _the ropes_ as the word runs along _the lines_,
"The Queen is coming!" "Let me see her," ejaculated the lady voyager:
"bless her heart! it was for that I came here; and is that Her Majesty?
She is a darling, that's what she is! so amiable, so kind-looking, and
so little to be a queen!" "And who is that in green, with the costly
golden couples over his shoulders?" "Oh, that's the master of the _dear_
hounds." "And all those lovely, smiling ladies?" "More of the _sweet_."
"Clear _the course_, clear _the course_!" and straightway there is a
movement of gold, precious stones, silk, and paradise plumes, enough to
astonish the Genii of the Wonderful Lamp.

"Here they come!" Grey Momus, and Epirus, and Caravan, with "little
Pavis, the _rara avis_." "Another round for it. Well done, grey; hurrah!
dismal jacket." "Who's the favourite?" "The _belles_ are all for
_Bowes_; I'm for Suffield, he's such a good fellow." "I'm for Lord
George, _he's a better_." "Hurrah! splendid race." "Oh! you villain,
you've stolen my watch; but I've got you, and I'll give it you." "That
ere's never no prigging. Didn't I hear you promise to give it him?" "Get
away, do—you'll break the springs: you're not to climb up my steps for a
stare." The Royal Stand is now vacated, and the cause reaches our little
inquisitive friend. "Her Majesty has retired to luncheon." "Law, is she,
indeed! how I _should_ like to see her eat: I'm dying to know what sort
of meals they provide for her." "All the delicacies in season,"
explained the wit, with a sinister smile, "and _Lamb_ the whole year
round." The matchless cavalcade has passed in all its gorgeous
simplicity, bearing the cynosure of all eyes, where waves the banner of
St. George a welcome to

                "The fair-haired daughter of the Isles,
                The hope of many nations."

This, and a rain, descending _à l'Anglaise_, gave notice to quit to all
save those who, by the grace of Mackintosh and neat brandy, had set the
elements at defiance. "Let us return to our conveyance," said the lively
little matron, "and make our way back to the station of the Great
Western Railway; my parasol is wet through already." "Here is the spot
where we left it," ejaculated her spruce and dapper lord and master,
"and no trace of it can I discover: what is to be done now? And the
rascal was paid beforehand for stopping." "You could hardly have
expected he _would_ stay, however," remarked the stout personage in the
nankeen leggings, the wig, and the very red face, proving thereby that
he was not only a wit but a philosopher; "you could hardly, in reason,
expect the vehicle to stop so long. You should remember it was a
_Go_-cart."


                   EXTRACTS FROM THE ANNUAL REGISTER.

JANUARY 15.—A tradesman at the West End was thrown into convulsions, by
the surprise of receiving payment of a Christmas bill!

FEBRUARY 9.—An elderly "Signer of Fives," who has, for thirty years
past, walked from Walworth to the Bank, without picking up one new idea
by the way, hearing that a deputation of paper-makers had applied to Mr.
Murphy for a little more rain to make their wheels go round, exclaimed,
"Don't tell me, they never can need it; have I not wanted my umbrella
every morning for above a week?"

MARCH 15.—The City Forensic Club applied to the Court of Aldermen for a
contribution; the grant was opposed by one of the Court, on the ground
that they could have nothing to spare for any Foreign-sick Society while
there was so much illness at home.

The same gentleman thought it his duty to inform the Court, that there
was a report on 'Change of an alarming rise in Sperma-City. He said he
had been taken from school so long ago, that he had forgotten its
locality, and requested the Remembrancer to remind him. That learned
gentleman, after referring to a map, said he could not exactly find the
place, but he believed it was somewhere in Wales.

APRIL 1.—At the annual meeting of the Humane Society, medals were
offered for the quickest method of putting disappointed authors out of
their misery—for the means of supplying aldermen, at city feasts, with
hot dinners, and—for the best plan for relieving the baronets from the
agonies they are suffering, on account of their neglected claims.

MAY 15.—_Legacy extraordinary._—A poor old woman, living at Clapham, a
few weeks ago, was given over by the doctor. Her only anxiety was for
her grandson, a scapegrace lad whom she had brought up, and of whom she
was the only relative. He had been placed under the care of a
neighbouring waggoner, and the man was sent for. "Thomas," said the old
woman, "I feel that I'm not long here, and I fear for Dick when I'm
gone. He's a wild lad, and I've nothing to leave him, but I hope you'll
look after him,"—the man nodded assent,—"and try to make a good lad of
him,"—nod—"and do your duty by him,"—nod again,—"and now and then _do
give him a cut or two_!" The authorities at Somerset House have not yet
been troubled to fix the duty payable on this bequest.

JUNE 15.—The following advertisement having appeared in the daily
papers, "FOUND—The wig and gown of a barrister _unknown_," the place of
reference was next day blocked up with applicants answering the
description.

JULY 21.—Lord Durham, in the midst of the cares of his government, has
not been unmindful of the promotion of science. Among other of his
original projects was one for exporting Canada geese, and domesticating
them in the Bermudas. It was discovered, however, that the attempt was
not likely to succeed, since his Lordship, though he might send them,
could not make them stay there.

AUGUST 9.—The recent default in Clerkenwell parish has been the cause of
the following notice on the Church doors:—"The inhabitants are requested
to remember when their taxes were collected, or they will be
recollected."

OCTOBER 1.—The Greenwich Pensioners who have lost their legs, this day
presented a petition to the Commissioners of Woods and Forests praying
to be re-membered.

NOVEMBER 15.—The Linendrapers' Shopmen held a public meeting to agitate
for earlier hours. Some of the masters, who attended, manifested a very
unaccommodating spirit, and seemed inclined to subject their complaint
to that dangerous system of treatment, _counter-irritation_.

DECEMBER 7.—Lord Durham safely arrived at his house in Cleveland Row
this day. We can vouch for the accuracy of the following particulars.
His Lordship, as he alighted, was observed to look up and down the
street, in an impressive manner, and nodded his head significantly to
the porter who stood to receive him—there seemed to be something in it.
His Lordship passed rapidly through the hall, upstairs, and shortly
after his dressing-room bell was heard to ring. Our reporter, who was
stationed at the window of the opposite house, was not able to ascertain
who answered it, but he observed servants pass out in various
directions, and one of them, by his anxious looks, seemed to manifest
peculiar solicitude. Soon afterwards, a butcher's boy presented himself
at the area, with a tray containing three mutton chops; he received some
communication from within, and disappeared rapidly, but shortly
returned, bearing a leg of mutton. No movement of importance being
observed for the next seven minutes, our reporter withdrew to the
nearest public-house for refreshment, and had scarcely taken his seat,
when a servant, in his Lordship's livery, entered, and whispered to the
man at the bar. The words were not heard, but the pot-boy was observed
to leave the house in great haste, having in his tray three pints of
half-and-half. It was rumoured in the private public room, where our
reporter was making his notes, that his Lordship's return was not
attributable to political causes solely, but to the dread of a Canadian
winter; for that, though he was amply furnished with warm feather beds,
he had been disappointed in receiving a supply of _bolsters_ from home.—
[_Intended for a Morning Paper._]

The principal novel publishers at the West End announce that, in the
course of the ensuing season, they will publish a great many fictions on
reduced terms. These will all be derived from the most authentic sources
of information, arrangements having been made with several retired
lady's-maids for original communications, and the contents of all
slop-pails, sent under cover, will be considered confidential, and used
with discretion. Gentlemen's gentlemen, who have dismissed their
masters, and are of a literary turn, will meet with every encouragement.

The Marquis of Waterford is preparing for publication a new edition of
Wild Sports of the West, with original illustrations.

Early in the new year will be published,

                               No. I. of

                          A FAMILY PERIODICAL.

                      _To be continued regularly._

[Illustration:

  A PRESENTATION COPY.
]

        Though Malthus indite it, and Martineau write it,
          I don't think they've quite hit the nail on the head;
        And spite of their pother 'bout father and mother,
          We may be one or t'other before we are dead.



                                  THE
                             COMIC ALMANACK
                               FOR 1840.


                             JANUARY.                             [1840.

[Illustration]


               JOLLY DOGS.—ABOLITION OF THE TRUCK SYSTEM.

[Sidenote: [Illustration]
           WEATHER
           ——
           Nipping frosts
           and
           driving snows,
           [Illustration: _Hill_-usage]
           thick-soled shoes
           and
           double-hose.
           [Illustration: Counter petition.]]

              Well, blow me—here's a pretty go!
              They'll only stop at ruination,
              And bringing all our trade to woe,
              For labouring in our just wocation.

              Why this ere act's the cruel'st deed
              That ever was devised to floor us;
              Such as our ancasters ne'er seed,
              Nor yet posterity afore us.

              Its clean agen the nat'ral law
              O' brute beasts, and of humane kind,
              For surely dogs was made to draw,
              And trucks was made to go behind.

              And we was made to sit a-top,
              And cut away in all our glory,
              And if the lazy varmint stop,
              To tell 'em jist another story.

              But, dash my wigs—this pretty set,
              With hearts as hard as any stone,
              Wont let an honest feller whet
              His lawful wengeance on his _own_.

              No longer now up Highgate road
              O' Sunday arternoons I gallop,
              With all the brats, a tidy load,
              And perhaps a neighbour's child to fill up.

              At Farringdon and Common Garden,
              I'm fairly laid upon the shelf;
              My only chance to earn a farden,
              Is truckling to the truck myself.

              But we'll resist this horrid plot,
              And for our order boldly strive,
              For this I know, that ours are not
              The only ill-used dogs alive.

              Let's not be down upon our luck,
              Nor out of heart at our condition,
              And since our dogs can't draw a truck,
              At least we'll draw up a petition;

              And lay our case before the Commons,
              What keeps the money of the nation:
              Perchance we'll get, like other rum 'uns,
              An equitable compensation.

[Illustration]

ORDERED to be considered _below_.

[Illustration:

  JANUARY:—The Announcement
]


                BARBER COX, AND THE CUTTING OF HIS COMB.
                       JANUARY.—THE ANNOUNCEMENT.

On the 1st of January, 1838, I was the master of a lovely shop in the
neighbourhood of Oxford market; of a wife, Mrs. Cox; of a business, both
in the shaving and cutting line, established three-and-thirty years; of
a girl and boy respectively of the ages of eighteen and thirteen; of a
three-windowed front, both to my first and second pair; of a young
foreman, my present partner, Mr. Orlando Crump; and of that celebrated
mixture for the human hair, invented by my late uncle, and called Cox's
Bohemian Balsam of Tokay, sold in pots at two-and-three, and
three-and-nine; the balsam, the lodgings, and the old-established
cutting and shaving business, brought me in a pretty genteel income. I
had had my girl, Jemimarann, at Hackney, to school; my dear boy,
Tuggeridge, plaited hair already beautifully; my wife at the counter
(behind the tray of patent soaps, &c.) cut as handsome a figure as
possible; and it was my hope that Orlando and my girl, who were mighty
soft upon one another, would, one day, be joined together in Hyming:
and, conjointly with my son Tug, carry on the business of hairdressers,
when their father was either dead or a gentleman; for a gentleman me and
Mrs. C. determined I should be.

Jemima was, you see, a lady herself, and of very high connexions: though
her own family had met with crosses, and was rather low. Mr. Tuggeridge,
her father, kept the famous tripe-shop, near the Pigtail and Sparrow, in
the Whitechapel Road, from which place I married her; being myself very
fond of the article, and especially when she served it to me—the dear
thing!

Jemima's father was not successful in business: and I married her, I am
proud to confess it, without a shilling. I had my hands, my house, and
my Bohemian balsam to support her!—and we had hopes from her uncle, a
mighty rich East India merchant, who, having left this country sixty
years ago, had arrived to be the head of a great house in India, and was
worth millions, we were told.

Three years after Jemimarann's birth (and two after the death of my
lamented father-in-law), Tuggeridge (head of the great house of Budgurow
and Co.), retired from the management of it; handed over his shares to
his son, Mr. John Tuggeridge, and came to live in England, at Portland
Place and Tuggeridgeville, Surrey, and enjoy himself. Soon after, my
wife took her daughter in her hand and went, as in duty bound, to visit
her uncle; but whether it was that he was proud and surly, or she
somewhat sharp in her way (the dear girl fears nobody, let me have you
to know), a desperate quarrel took place between them; and from that day
to the day of his death he never set eyes on her. All that he would
condescend to do was to take a few dozen of lavender water from us in
the course of the year, and to send his servants to be cut and shaved by
us. All the neighbours laughed at this poor ending of our expectations,
for Jemmy had bragged not a little; however, we did not care, for the
connexion was always a good one, and we served Mr. Hock, the valet; Mr.
Bar, the coachman; and Mrs. Breadbasket, the housekeeper, willingly
enough. I used to powder the footman, too, on great days, but never in
my life saw old Tuggeridge, except once; when he said, "O, the barber!"
tossed up his nose, and passed on.

One day—one famous day last January—all our market was thrown into a
high state of excitement by the appearance of no less than three
vehicles at our establishment. As me, Jemmy, my daughter, Tug, and
Orlando, were sitting in the back parlour over our dinner (it being
Christmas time, Mr. Crump had treated the ladies to a bottle of port,
and was longing that there should be a mistletoe bough; at which
proposal my little Jemimarann looked as red as a glass of negus):—we had
just, I say, finished the port, when, all of a sudden, Tug bellows out,
"Law, pa, here's uncle Tuggeridge's housekeeper in a cab!"

And Mrs. Breadbasket it was, sure enough—Mrs. Breadbasket in deep
mourning, who made her way, bowing and looking very sad, into the back
shop. My wife, who respected Mrs. B. more than anything else in the
world, set her a chair, offered her a glass of wine, and vowed it was
very kind of her to come. "Law, mem," says Mrs. B., "I'm sure I'd do
anything to serve your family, for the sake of that poor dear
Tuck-Tuck-tug-guggeridge, that's gone."

"That's what?" cries my wife.

"What, gone?" cried Jemimarann, bursting out crying (as little girls
will about anything or nothing); and Orlando looking very rueful, and
ready to cry too.

"Yes, gaw——" Just as she was at this very "gaw," Tug roars out, "Law pa!
here's Mr. Bar, uncle Tug's coachman!"

It was Mr. Bar: when she saw him Mrs. Breadbasket stepped suddenly back
into the parlour with my ladies. "What is it, Mr. Bar?" says I; and, as
quick as thought, I had the towel under his chin, Mr. Bar in the chair,
and the whole of his face in a beautiful foam of lather: Mr. Bar made
some resistance. "Don't think of it, Mr. Cox," says he; "don't trouble
yourself, sir;" but I lathered away and never minded. "And what's this
melancholy event, sir," says I, "that has spread desolation in your
family's bosoms? I can feel for your loss, sir—I can feel for your
loss."

I said so out of politeness, because I served the family, not because
Tuggeridge was my uncle—no, as such I disown him.

Mr. Bar was just about to speak. "Yes, sir," says he, "my master's gaw——
" When at the "gaw" in walks Mr. Hock, the own man!—the finest gentleman
I ever saw.

"What, _you_ here, Mr. Bar?" says he.

"Yes, I am, sir; and haven't I a right, sir?"

"A mighty wet day, sir," says I to Mr. Hock, stepping up and making my
bow. "A sad circumstance too, sir—and is it a turn of the tongs that you
want to-day, sir? Ho, there! Mr. Crump!"

"Turn, Mr. Crump, if you please, sir," said Mr. Hock, making a bow; "but
from you, sir, never, no never, split me!—and I wonder how some fellows
can have the _insolence_ to allow their MASTERS to shave them!" With
this Mr. Hock flung himself down to be curled: Mr. Bar suddenly opened
his mouth in order to reply; but, seeing there was a tiff between the
gentlemen, and wanting to prevent a quarrel, I rammed the "Advertiser"
into Mr. Hock's hands, and just popped my shaving brush into Mr. Bar's
mouth—a capital way to stop angry answers.

Mr. Bar had hardly been in the chair a second, when whirr comes a
hackney-coach to the door, from which springs a gentleman in a black
coat with a bag.

"What, you here?" says the gentleman. I could not help smiling, for it
seemed that everybody was to begin by saying, "What, _you_ here?" "Your
name is Cox, sir," says he; smiling, too, as the very pattern of mine.
"My name, sir, is Sharpus—Blunt, Hone, and Sharpus, Middle Temple-lane,—
and I am proud to salute you, sir; happy,—that is to say, sorry to say,
that Mr. Tuggeridge, of Portland Place, is dead, and your lady is
heiress, in consequence, to one of the handsomest properties in the
kingdom."

At this I started, and might have sunk to the ground, but for my hold of
Mr. Bar's nose; Orlando seemed putrified to stone, with his irons fixed
to Mr. Hock's head; our respective patients gave a wince out:—Mrs. C.,
Jemimarann, and Tug, rushed from the back shop, and we formed that
splendid tableau which the great Cruikshank has here depicted!

"And Mr. John Tuggeridge, sir?" says I.

"Why—hee, hee, hee!" says Mr. Sharpus; "surely you know that he was only
the—hee, hee, hee!—the natural son!"

You now can understand why the servants from Portland Place had been so
eager to come to us: one of the housemaids heard Mr. Sharpus say there
was no will, and that my wife was heir to the property, and not Mr. John
Tuggeridge: this she told in the housekeeper's room; and off, as soon as
they heard it, the whole party set, in order to be the first to bear the
news.

We kept them, every one, in their old places; for, though my wife would
have sent them about their business, my dear Jemimarann just hinted,
"Mamma, you know _they_ have been used to great houses, and we have not;
had we not better keep them for a little?"—Keep them then, we did, to
show us how to be gentlefolks.

I handed over the business to Mr. Crump without a single farthing of
premium, though Jemmy would have made me take four hundred pounds for
it; but this I was above: Crump had served me faithfully, and have the
shop he should.

[Illustration:

  FEBRUARY.—First Rout
]

                            FEBRUARY.                             [1840.

[Illustration]


                           A PENNY POST-OBIT.

MY DEAR FRIEND,—I write you this letter to explain to you why you have
next to nothing to pay for it. The Government has settled the business;
and the Chancellor of the Exchequer has resolved to set his revenue _a
going by the Post_. We are to pay a penny for a letter, which is
expected to have upon it the stamp of the Post Office, and of public
approbation at the same time. I hardly think it will. Some of the
community are looking dull about it already. There is a _pence_-ive air
about the two—I beg pardon, the—one penny postmen, which strikes every
one. They intimate that it is gammon to load a man with an additional
hundredweight of paper, and to call _that_ a _reduction of public duty_.
It clearly affects people of that _stamp_; and the public surmise it may
even touch the Newspapers. In short, they say that the _Times_ will be
quite altered by the _Post_. Ladies generally seem to like the idea, but
there is a visible depression in the _mails_. Many a _coachman_ has been
thrown off his _guard_, and surprised into a most determined alteration
of _carriage_. The Government will be a political mid-wife, engaged in
an everlasting delivery. London is already afflicted with a metropolitan
rheumatism, produced by the introduction of fresh draughts into
passages, the carpenters having cut holes in all the street-doors.
Sanguine people, however, retain their knockers, in the hope of getting
the reward offered for the discovery of _perpetual motion_! They say
there is to be an issue of more than a million of letters a day; but men
are a little at issue about this. There must be some truth in it,
however, as two thousand counters have been engaged,—one thousand to
_count_ them, and the other to _count them upon_. Sorters of all sorts
are employed. At the Post Offices, at all hours, the _pigeon_ holes will
be surrounded by _carriers_. The poor fellows will be like muskets,
perpetually _going off_. Rowland Hill has invented this scheme; but the
postmen do not complain of him so much as of the other _hills_ they must
trudge over with their great bags of letters. The only district there is
any contention for is _Bag shot_ heath, once famous for highwaymen; they
say, however, that we are _all_ highwaymen now, and do nothing but make
them "_stand and deliver_" from morning till night. Some mercantile
quarrels have sprung out of the new regulation. For instance, there is a
good deal of _milling_ among the paper-makers. The march of paper will
be prodigious—the French say we shall have none left, that it will be
all _papier marché_! Men, women, and children are to write—right or
wrong. Enjoinments to this duty—now the other duty is off—press from all
quarters. "Be sure you send me plenty of _notes_," says the son,
departing for College. "Write to me often, _Billy, do_," asks the
affectionate mother of her school-going child. Love-letters, containing
mutual _pledges_, will be _popped_ into the post by thousands; and
hearts gone passed _redemption_ will be slipped recklessly through a
hole in the door. It is uncertain whether orators will not cease
_spouting_, and singers write the notes which they formerly would have
_uttered_. Ironmongers are looking up—and _forgery_ is going on
famously—in consequence of the great demand for steam _steal_ pens.
Manifold-writers are quite exhausted. I confess, I do not like the
system myself—as it's Hill's, it has its ills; any good in it will
appear on an examination—

                                                            POST MORTEM.


                         FEBRUARY.—FIRST ROUT.

We were speedily installed in our fine house: but what's a house without
friends? Jemmy made me _cut_ all my old acquaintances in the market, and
I was a solitary being, when, luckily, an old acquaintance of ours,
Captain Tagrag, was so kind as to promise to introduce us into
distinguished society. Tagrag was the son of a baronet, and had done us
the honour of lodging with us for two years; when we lost sight of him,
and of his little account, too, by the way. A fortnight after, hearing
of our good fortune, he was among us again, however; and Jemmy was not a
little glad to see him, knowing him to be a baronet's son, and very fond
of our Jemimarann; indeed, Orlando (who is as brave as a lion) had, on
one occasion, absolutely beaten Mr. Tagrag for being rude to the poor
girl; a clear proof, as Tagrag said afterwards, that he was always fond
of her.

Mr. Crump, poor fellow, was not very much pleased by our good fortune,
though he did all he could to try, at first; and I told him to come and
take his dinner regular, as if nothing had happened. But to this Jemima
very soon put a stop, for she came very justly to know her stature, and
to look down on Crump, which she bid her daughter to do; and, after a
great scene, in which Orlando showed himself very rude and angry, he was
forbidden the house—for ever!

So much for poor Crump. The Captain was now all in all with us. "You
see, sir," our Jemmy would say, "we shall have our town and country
mansion, and a hundred and thirty thousand pounds in the funds to leave
between our two children; and, with such prospects, they ought surely to
have the first society of England." To this Tagrag agreed, and promised
to bring us acquainted with the very pink of the fashion; ay, and what's
more, did.

First, he made my wife get an opera-box, and give suppers on Tuesdays
and Saturdays. As for me, he made me ride in the park; me and
Jemimarann, with two grooms behind us, who used to laugh all the way,
and whose very beards I had shaved. As for little Tug, he was sent
straight off to the most fashionable school in the kingdom, the Rev.
Doctor Pigney's, at Richmond.

Well, the horses, the suppers, the opera-box, the paragraphs in the
papers about Mr. Coxe Coxe (that's the way, double your name, and stick
an 'e' to the end of it, and you are a gentleman at once), had an effect
in a wonderfully short space of time, and we began to get a very pretty
society about us. Some of old Tug's friends swore they would do anything
for the family, and brought their wives and daughters to see dear Mrs.
Cox and her charming girl; and when, about the first week in February,
we announced a grand dinner and ball, for the evening of the
twenty-eighth, I assure you there was no want of company; no, nor of
titles neither; and it always does my heart good even to hear one
mentioned.

Let me see, there was, first, my Lord Dunbooze, an Irish peer, and his
seven sons, the Honourable Messieurs Trumper (two only to dinner); there
was Count Mace, the celebrated French nobleman, and his Excellency Baron
Von Punter, from Baden; there was Lady Blanch Bluenose, the eminent
literati, author of "The Distrusted," "The Distorted," "The Disgusted,"
"The Disreputable One," and other poems; there was the Dowager Lady Max,
and her daughter, the Honourable Miss Adelaide Blueruin; Sir Charles
Codshead, from the City; and Field-Marshal Sir Gorman O'Gallagher, K.A.,
K.B., K.C., K.W., K.X., in the service of the republic of Guatemala: my
friend Tagrag, and his fashionable acquaintance, little Tom Tufthunt,
made up the party; and when the doors were flung open, and Mr. Hock, in
black, with a white napkin, three footmen, coachman, and a lad, whom
Mrs. C. had dressed in sugar-loaf buttons, and called a page, were seen
round the dinner-table, all in white gloves, I promise you I felt a
thrill of elation, and thought to myself—Sam Cox, Sam Cox, who ever
would have expected to see you here?

After dinner, there was to be, as I said, an evening party; and to this
Messieurs Tagrag and Tufthunt had invited many of the principal nobility
that our metropolis has produced. When I mention, among the company to
tea, her Grace the Duchess of Zero, her son the Marquis of Fitzurse, and
the Ladies North Pole, her daughters; when I say that there were yet
_others_, whose names may be found in the Blue Book, but shan't, out of
modesty, be mentioned here, I think I've said enough to show that, in
our time, No. 96, Portland Place, was the resort of the best company.

It was our first dinner, and dressed by our new cook, Munseer
Cordongblew. I bore it very well, eating, for my share, a filly dysol
allamater dotell, a cutlet soubeast, a pully bashymall, and other French
dishes: and, for the frisky sweet wine, with tin tops to the bottles,
called Champang, I must say that me and Mrs. Coxe-Tuggeridge-Coxe drank
a very good share of it (but the Claret and Jonnysberger, being sour, we
did not much relish); however, the feed, as I say, went off very well,
Lady Blanch Bluenose sitting next to me, and being so good as to put me
down for six copies of all her poems; the Count and Baron Von Punter
engaging Jemimarann for several waltzes, and the Field-Marshal plying my
dear Jemmy with Champang until, bless her! her dear nose became as red
as her new crimson satin gown, which, with a blue turban and
Bird-of-Paradise feathers, made her look like an Empress, I warrant.

Well, dinner past, Mrs. C. and the ladies went off:—thunder-under-under
came the knocks at the door; squeedle-eedle-eedle, Mr. Wippert's
fiddlers began to strike up; and, about half-past eleven, me and the
gents thought it high time to make our appearance. I felt a _little_
squeamish at the thought of meeting a couple of hundred great people;
but Count Mace, and Sir Gorman O'Gallagher taking each an arm, we
reached, at last, the drawing-room.

The young ones in company were dancing, and the Duchess and the great
ladies were all seated, talking to themselves very stately, and working
away at the ices and macaroons. I looked out for my pretty Jemimarann
amongst the dancers, and saw her tearing round the room along with Baron
Punter, in what they call a gallypard; then I peeped into the circle of
the Duchesses, where, in course, I expected to find Mrs. C.; but she
wasn't there! She was seated at the farther end of the room, looking
very sulky; and I went up, and took her arm, and brought her down to the
place where the Duchesses were. "O, not there!" said Jemmy, trying to
break away. "Nonsense, my dear," says I, "you are Missis, and this is
your place:"—then, going up to her Ladyship the Duchess, says I, "Me and
my Missis are most proud of the honour of seeing of you."

The Duchess (a tall red-haired grenadier of a woman) did not speak.

I went on. "The young ones are all at it, ma'am, you see: and so we
thought we would come and sit down among the old ones. You and I, ma'am,
I think, are too stiff to dance."

"Sir?" says her Grace.

"Ma'am," says I, "don't you know me? my name's Cox—nobody's introduced
me; but, dash it, it's my own house, and I may present myself—so give us
your hand, ma'am."

And I shook hers in the kindest way in the world: but, would you believe
it? the old cat screamed as if my hand had been a hot 'tater. "Fitzurse!
Fitzurse!" shouted she; "help! help!" Up scuffled all the other
Dowagers—in rushed the dancers. "Mamma! mamma!" squeaked Lady Julia
North Pole. "Lead me to my mother," howled Lady Aurorer; and both came
up and flung themselves into her arms. "Wawt's the raw?" said Lord
Fitzurse, sauntering up quite stately.

"Protect me from the insults of this man," says her Grace. "Where's
Tufthunt? he promised that not a soul in this house should speak to me."

"My dear Duchess," said Tufthunt, very meek.

"Don't Duchess _me_, sir. Did you not promise they should not speak; and
hasn't that horrid tipsy wretch offered to embrace me? Didn't his
monstrous wife sicken me with her odious familiarities? Call my people,
Tufthunt! Follow me, my children!"

"And my carriage; and mine, and mine!" shouted twenty more voices; and
down they all trooped to the hall: Lady Blanch Bluenose, and Lady Max
among the very first; leaving only the Field-Marshal, and one or two
men, who roared with laughter ready to split.

"O, Sam," said my wife, sobbing, "why would you take me back to them?
they had sent me away before! I only asked the Duchess whether she
didn't like rum-shrub better than all your Maxarinos and Curasosos: and,
would you believe it? all the company burst out laughing; and the
Duchess told me just to keep off, and not speak till I was spoken to.
Imperence! I'd like to tear her eyes out."

And so I lo believe my dearest Jemmy would!


                             TOM THE DEVIL.
                  A FRAGMENT OF THE BIOGRAPHY OF 1839.

       "I do declare, upon an affidavit,
         Romance I've never read like that I've seen:
       Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it,
         Would some believe that such a tale had been!"—_Byron._

It was a little past the noon of a lovely day in the last Autumn, that,
as I rode towards the Doncaster race-course, to enjoy an hour of its
rural revelries, before the serious business of the Leger commenced, I
found myself hailed by a voice, and an arm of a red silk _robe de
chambre_, from a drawing-room window of the "Salutation." Now, when we
set out in prepense search of adventure, it don't require the song of
the Syrens to induce us to luff up to a hail. Turning under the gateway,
therefore, I dismounted, and taking my way upstairs, made the apartment
for which I was bound, with but little difficulty. The chamber was,
certainly, not the worst specimen I had ever seen of the unfortunate
world whereof it formed an item. The appointments combined no ordinary
degree of comfort and elegance, while a table, placed at one of the
windows, was stocked after a manner that would have done honour to the
corporation of Bristol. Among various _plats_, consisting of cold
partridges, French patés, devil'd grouse, and varieties of choice fruit,
arose the graceful forms of tapering flasks, eloquent of many a rare and
precious vintage. The lord or all, arrayed in a robe of scarlet silk,
lined with purple of a like material, lay, dishevelled, in Sybarite
indulgence, upon a sofa adjoining this teeming board. "_Couchant_," I
knew him not; but as he rose to receive me, there, in that silk attire,
stood confessed the worthy, a fragment of whose biography I am now in
the act of perpetuating—the veritable hero of these presents, even Tom
the Devil himself. As my acquaintance with him at the time (and indeed
in all subsequent experience) was of a very desultory character, this
introduction of him to the reader must be of a similar nature. Ireland
was the land of his birth; but the particulars of his parentage were
less definitely ascertained. I was assured he had _an uncle_ (from an
episode in his life that it is not convenient here to enter upon), and,
indeed, he himself admitted that he was in the habit of frequent
intercourse with a person distinguished by that appellation. However,
for our present purpose, it is enough that he was an eccentric, endowed
with little of the tedious coherence of the merely common-place. When we
laugh at the samples of his compatriots, put before us by the playwright
and the actor, we regard them as pleasant burlesques, cleverly, though
unnaturally, got up. Reader! if haply thou hast had no personal
experience of Erin as it is, permit me to offer thee this characteristic
fragment.

"Ould fellow," said the fiend, clutching my hand in a monstrous horny
fist, "by my sowl, I'm grately plazed to meet ye in these parts: when
did ye come to Doncaster? and where do ye hang out? and how long do ye
stop?" "Came by the Edinburgh mail yesterday morning; at my old lodgings
at the saddler's, nearly opposite the Rooms: leave for town to-morrow,"
said I. "That's a nate way of doing business, sure enough," was the
commentary; "ounly I can't larn the sinse of going to a private lodging,
where, if you ordher a kidney for breakfast, you're expected to fork out
to the butcher. See how _I_ carry on the war, and never hard the ghost
of an inquiry about coin sense I sot fut in the house. A hotel's the
place for me! I've thried 'em all, from the Club-house at Kilkinny to
the Clarendon, and, by the holy poker, never wish mysilf worse luck than
such cantonments! Arrah! what more does a man require than a place
where, if he wants a bottle of claret, all he has to do is to ring the
bell for it? Dine with me to-night," continued the social economist;
"they put you to trough very respectably in this same shop: ask, and
have, that's the ticket." I declined, with thanks; urging a previous
engagement, and made a demonstration of leave-taking.—"Fill a bumper of
sparkling burgundy before you go, any how," said my hospitable host;
"you'll find it a gentlemanly morning tipple! if this be war, may we
never have pace; here's to our next merry meeting, and may we never know
the want of oceans of wine, plantations of tobacco, cart-loads of pipes,
lots of purty girls, and a large room to swear in.—Farewell."

About a fortnight after the date to which the foregoing refers, chance
placed me in Dublin, and the coffee-room of Morisson's hotel, towards
eight, P.M., with the remnant of a bottle of Sneyd and Barton's
"twenty-two" before me. With his back to one of the fires stood what had
all the outward appearance of a scare-crow—a figure made up of a coat
that no respectable old clothesman would degrade his bag withal, and a
superlatively "shocking bad hat." The waiters were eyeing it in a most
suspicious manner, and I was wondering why they didn't kick it into the
street, when, to my utter amazement, the "horrible illusion" stalked
towards the place where I sat, and, in accents familiar to my ear,
wheezed out, "Ould fellow, by my sowl I'm grately plazed to meet ye in
these parts!" There could be no mistake about it—Tom, it was—"sed quanto
mutatus ab illo _diabolo_." "A chair," said I, to a waiter who was now
staring at us both, like the Trojan who drew Priam's curtain—"bring a
chair and another wine-glass;" and pouring a bumper, I pushed it towards
my _vis-à-vis_. "Drink, Tom," I continued; "whatever maybe your object
in this masquerading, a drain of Bordeaux will never hurt you: drink,
and then, unless it's treason, leave off your damnable faces and begin."
"Masquerading!" exclaimed the scurvy libel upon the Doncaster
Sardanapalus, with a smile as much out of character on such a face as a
rose in an undertaker's button-hole; "by the piper of Blessingtown, it's
rale arnest! Unless the smell of mate be disagreeable to you after
dinner, for the honour of dacency tell them to get me a few steakes
without delay: I'm as full of wind as a blown blather: like my ould
coat, I'm dying of the stitches." Several handsome sections of a sirloin
having been disposed of, without the ceremony of oyster sauce, and a
wish for materials for punch (expressed with a look of intense
yearning), duly administered to, "the Devil" thus detailed his progress
since our parting:—

"It's mighty nice for philosophers, on three courses and a dessert, to
talk about the uses of adversity being sweet; but if they'll thry a
genuine sample of it, say a can of poorhouse soup (biling dish-wather,
flavoured with a farthing rushlight to the gallon), perhaps they would
alther their opinions a _leetle_. However, there's no need for these
reflections now. How did the Leger serve you?—I lost (that was of very
little consequence)—but I didn't win, and that _was_, as I was entirely
without funds just thin. Well, I wint to ould——'s, at night (having
transmogrified what odd togs I could muster into cash, by the assistance
of _my father's brother_), and if it had been '_vingt un_,' or '_loo_,'
we were playing, my fortune would have been made, for I got aces by the
baker's dozen. But at hazard they're not the thing: so I was turned
inside out as clane as a pudden-bag—indeed rather claner, as they got
out of me about four times as much as ever I contained. Whin I rose to
lave the house (who was to stay there with such a run against him?), the
blaggards objected to my taking my Macintosh and hat with me, bad luck
to them! and so I had to return home as classically undressed as William
the Third in College Green. A man without hat or coat, however, isn't so
well thought of now-a-days as among the ancient Romans; and, as
misfortunes never come alone, without half a score to keep them company,
I found my credit at the hotel had gone to look after that which I left
at ould——'s hazard-table. No gentleman should ever demane himself by
running the risk of a notice to quit; so, instead of stopping at the
race-ground next morning, I walked quietly on to Newark. It's raly a
purty walk from Doncaster to Liverpool—that is to say, for those who are
fond of pedesthrian exercise—_I_ like riding better; and so I wasn't
sorry whin I seen the Mersey rowling away on my right. Having left my
body-coat in pledge for the last night's lodging, I had to borry one
that was hanging on a stick in a pay-field, and as my shoes had given in
at Norman Cross, I was not just the cut for a fashionable hotel. A bit
of an ague I was lucky enough to pick up at Grantham, however, qualified
me for a berth in the hospital, where I remained till I was
convalescent—which manes on the brink of the grave; so I left, to save
them the trouble of burying me. There's no stepping from the pier-head
at Liverpool to the North Wall here, so that there was nothing left for
it but an application, in form of a distriss'd Irish agriculturist, to
the export committee, and they furnished me with a pass for the hould of
a steamer, and a fourpenny loaf for sea-store. If our passage hadn't
been a bad one, I should have done well enough; but my provision was out
before we reached the Orme's Head, and I was ready to ate my brogues
whin I caught sight of you. Never mind! worse luck now—better another
time; as Shakspeare says—'Life's a stage, and every man plays many
parts.' Anthony to-day, Scrub to-morrow."


                     THE DUST ABOUT THE GOLD DUST.

            A _lac_ of lost rupees might make
              The loser cry, "_alack!_"
            But think upon their grief who're robb'd
              Of gold, and by the sack!
            And what a dust they did kick up
              To get their _gold dust_ back!

            To rob two British merchants thus
              Did wicked Jews combine;
            They knew that gold dust had arriv'd,
              And what house did consign:
            Said each, "Since from the _mine_ it comes,
              I'll make some of it _mine_!"

            With firm right-hand a bad Clerk forg'd
              The write-hand of the Firm:
            The Customs gave the box (where was
              Reflection, then, O _Sturm_!)
            And all the bags of gold, inside,
              Were bagg'd, like briefs in Term.

            They cabb'd the booty all away,
              That boots might leave no tracks;
            Then lugg'd the sacks out, one by one,
              And laid them on their backs:
            And marshall'd them all in a row,
              Like troops of Marshal Saxe!

            They hid them in the pot-house low
              Of Moses—"fence," and "do;"
            For wealth amass'd, 'tis doubtful how,
              Call'd "_Money_ Moses," too;
            The world gave him that _Christian_ name,
              Because he was a _Jew_!

            Now _Moses_ had a daughter, dark,
              A damsel all discreet,
            He gave the gold into her _hands_,
              And she perform'd the _feat_
            Of selling it to a goldsmith Jew,
              Another wicked cheat!

            Into the goldsmith's crucible
              The bag of ore she thrust;
            Then, as the dust dissolv'd, she cried,
              "Come, down, now, with _your_ dust!"
            And he, all in the _melting_ mood,
              Said, "I suppose I must."

            At once some _pounds_ for every _ounce_
              He paid upon the spot;
            A shining ingot soon was turn'd
              Out of the melting-pot.
            A precious scrape the Jew _got in_,
              All through that same _ingot_.

            For 'mong the thieves divisions rose,
              Like vinegar with oil,
            They disagreed—for one would still
              The other rob and foil:
            And all their deep-laid schemes were _spoil'd_
              In sharing out the _spoil_.

            At last, of their dissentient rows,
              A '_peach_ became the _fruit_,
            One Jew, in jew-rious, blabb'd about
              The dust and the dispute:
            The gang were taken, and the law
              Fell _cute_ to prosecute.

            Then Moses, goldsmith, damsel, clerk,
              Into their pickle fell;
            They found they were no sooner _sold_
              Than clapp'd into a _cell_:
            From which not one of them could _bolt_,
              While bolted in so well!

            At last the trial did come on,
              The Court was in a throng,
            The _Evidence_ against them all
              Was _heavy, dense_, and strong;
            Guilty the _Ju_-ry found the _Jews_,
              And so might end my song:—

            But no; the lawyers found a flaw,
              To keep the law at bay—
            Not Bot'ny-bay—the way by which
              They should be sent away—
            So one or two, _by getting off_,
              May still in London _stay_.

            Now all the Culprits' fates depend
              On what the Judges choose;
            To sin-a-gain, not Synagogue,
              Their liberty they'd use:
            So England hopes her Judges wont
              Emancipate the Jews!

                              MARCH.                              [1840.

[Illustration]


                      MARCH DUST.—THE BELL SAVAGE.

[Sidenote: SEASON'S SIGNS.
           ———————
           ♈ ♂ ♒
           'Tis hard for
           dust
           they may not
           ring;
           ♀ ♐ ♄ ⊕
           because,
           in March, 'twill
           buy
           a King.
           [Illustration: A Jolly Cock]
           [Illustration: A Dustman and his Belle.]]

             That dustman's bell—that dustman's bell—
             What horrid tales its tongue did tell!
             He surely served his country well
             Who freed us from the dustman's bell.

             When basking in the morning beams,
             I revell'd in Elysian dreams,
             'Mong flowers, by Helicon's sweet bubble,
             Inventing rhymes with little trouble;
             What did so soon the charm dispel,
             As that detested dustman's bell!

             Or, thinking all the night away,
             On debts ungather'd, bills to pay;
             And pondering how it might be known
             Whether 'twas best to hang or drown,
             I've dropped into a wearied snooze,
             And quickly tied the fatal nooze,
             Then, starting at my funeral knell,
             Found 'twas the dustman's passing bell.

             When dining with a chosen few,
             "The jolly cocks," a noble crew,
             I've wander'd home supremely glorious,
             And even dared to be uproarious,
             The champagne mounting in my head,
             Not knowing how I got to bed;
             And, waking with the dawn, I've found
             The room and bed-post turning round;
             What time, in accents loud and clear,
             My loving, lawful, lady dear,
             With curtain'd privilege elate,
             And heedless of my fallen state,
               The round of all my faults doth tell;
             Spite of my headache and my woes,
             Exhausted, I begin to doze,
               And dream I hear the dustman's bell,

             That dustman's bell—that dustman's bell, &c.

15. Animal Magnetism Exhibitions stopped at the North London Hospital.

[Illustration]

                The cunning patient, we are told,
                Would only move when touch'd by gold.
                That would not suit the learned elves;
                The Doctors wanted it themselves.

25. Gold-dust robbery. New version of "The Golden Fleece."

[Illustration:

  MARCH.—A day with the Surrey Hounds
]


                  MARCH.—A DAY WITH THE SURREY HOUNDS.

Our ball had failed so completely, that Jemmy, who was bent still upon
fashion, caught eagerly at Tagrag's suggestion, and went down to
Tuggeridgeville. If we had a difficulty to find friends in town, here
there was none; for the whole county came about us, ate our dinners and
suppers, danced at our balls—ay, and spoke to us too. We were great
people, in fact; I a regular country gentleman; and, as such, Jemmy
insisted that I should be a sportsman, and join the county hunt. "But,"
says I, "my love, I can't ride." "Pooh! Mr. C.," she said, "you're
always making difficulties; you thought you couldn't dance a quadrille;
you thought you couldn't dine at seven o'clock; you thought you couldn't
lie in bed after six; and haven't you done every one of these things?
You must and you shall ride!" And when my Jemmy said "must and shall," I
knew very well there was nothing for it: so I sent down fifty guineas to
the hunt, and, out of compliment to me, the very next week I received
notice that the meet of the hounds would take place at Squashtail
Common, just outside of my lodge-gates.

I didn't know what a meet was; and me and Mrs. C. agreed that it was
most probable the dogs were to be fed there: however, Tagrag explained
this matter to us, and very kindly promised to sell me a horse, a
delightful animal of his own; which, being desperately pressed for
money, he would let me have for a hundred guineas, he himself having
given a hundred and fifty for it.

Well, the Thursday came; the hounds met on Squashtail Common; Mrs. C.
turned out in her barouche to see us throw off; and being helped up on
my chestnut horse, Trumpeter, by Tagrag and my head groom, I came
presently round to join them.

Tag mounted his own horse; and as we walked down the avenue, "I
thought," he said, "you told me you knew how to ride; and that you had
ridden once fifty miles on a stretch!"

"And so I did," says I: "to Cambridge, and on the box too."

"_On the box?_" says he; "but did you ever mount a horse before?"

"Never," says I, "but I find it mighty easy."

"Well," says he, "you're mighty bold for a barber; and I like you, Coxe,
for your spirit;" and so we came out of the gate.

As for describing the hunt, I own, fairly, I can't. I've been at a hunt,
but what a hunt is—why the horses _will_ go among the dogs and ride them
down—why the men cry out "yooooic"—why the dogs go snuffling about in
threes and fours, and the huntsman says, "Good Towler—good Betsy;" and
we all of us after him, say, "Good Towler—good Betsy" in course: then,
after hearing a yelp here, and a howl there, tow, row, yow, yow, yow!
bursts out, all of a sudden, from three or four of them, and the chap in
the velvet cap screeches out (with a number of oaths I shan't repeat
here), "Hark, to Ringwood!" and then, "There he goes!" says some one;
and all of a sudden, helter skelter, skurry hurry, slap bang, hooping,
screeching, and hurraing, blue coats and red coats, bays and greys,
horses, dogs, donkeys, butchers, baronets, dustmen, and blackguard boys,
go tearing, all together, over the common after two or three of the pack
that yowl the loudest. Why all this is, I can't say, but it all took
place the second Thursday of last March, in my presence.

Up to this I'd kept my seat as well as the best, for we'd only been
trotting gently about the field until the dogs found: and I managed to
stick on very well; but directly the tow-rowing began, off went
Trumpeter like a thunderbolt, and I found myself playing among the dogs
like the donkey among the chickens. "Back, Mr. Coxe," holloas the
huntsman; and so I pulled very hard, and cried out, Wo! but he wouldn't;
and on I went galloping for the dear life. How I kept on is a wonder;
but I squeezed my knees in very tight, and shoved my feet very hard into
the stirrups, and kept stiff hold of the scruff of Trumpeter's neck, and
looked betwixt his ears as well as ever I could, and trusted to luck,
for I was in a mortal fright, sure enough, as many a better man would be
in such a case, let alone a poor hairdresser.

As for the hounds, after my first riding in among them, I tell you,
honestly, I never saw so much as the tip of one of their tails; nothing
in this world did I see except Trumpeter's dun-coloured mane, and that I
gripped firm: riding, by the blessing of luck, safe through the walking,
the trotting, the galloping, and never so much as getting a tumble.

There was a chap at Croydon, very well known as the "Spicy Dustman,"
who, when he could get no horse to ride to the hounds, turned regularly
out on his donkey; and on this occasion made one of us. He generally
managed to keep up with the dogs, by trotting quietly through the cross
roads, and knowing the country well. Well, having a good guess where the
hounds would find, and the line that sly Reynolds (as they call the fox)
would take, the Spicy Dustman turned his animal down the lane, from
Squashtail to Cutshins Common, across which, sure enough, came the whole
hunt. There's a small hedge and a remarkably fine ditch here; some of
the leading chaps took both, in gallant style; others went round by a
gate, and so would I, only I couldn't; for Trumpeter would have the
hedge, and be-hanged to him, and went right for it.

Hoop! if ever you _did_ try a leap! Out go your legs, out fling your
arms, off goes your hat; and the next thing you feel, that is, _I_ did,
is a most tremendous thwack across the chest, and my feet jerked out of
the stirrups; me left in the branches of a tree; Trumpeter gone clean
from under me, and walloping and floundering in the ditch underneath.
One of the stirrup-leathers had caught in a stake, and the horse
couldn't get away; and neither of us, I thought, ever _would_ have got
away; but, all of sudden, who should come up the lane but the Spicy
Dustman!

"Holloa!" says I, "you gent, just let us down from this here tree!"

"Lor!" says he, "I'm blest if I didn't take you for a robin."

"Let's down," says I; but he was all this time employed in disengaging
Trumpeter, whom he got out of the ditch, trembling and as quiet as
possible. "Let's down," says I. "Presently," says he; and taking off his
coat, he begins whistling and swishing down Trumpeter's sides and
saddle; and, when he had finished, what do you think the rascal did?—he
just quietly mounted on Trumpeter's back, and shouts out, "Git down
yourself, old Bears-grease; you've only to drop! _I'll_ give your oss a
hairing arter them 'ounds; and you, vy you may ride back my pony to
Tuggeridgeweal!" And with this, I'm blest if he didn't ride away,
leaving me holding, as for the dear life, and expecting every minute the
branch would break.

It _did_ break too, and down I came into the slush; and when I got out
of it, I can tell you I didn't look much like the Venuses or the Apollor
Belvidearis what I used to dress and titivate up for my shop-window,
when I was in the hairdressing line, or smell quite so elegant as our
rose-oil. Faugh! what a figure I was!

I had nothing for it but to mount the dustman's donkey (which was very
quietly cropping grass in the hedge), and to make my way home; and after
a weary, weary journey, I arrived at my own gate.

A whole party was assembled there. Tagrag, who had come back; their
Excellencies Mace and Punter, who were on a visit; and a number of
horses walking up and down before the whole of the gentlemen of the
hunt, who had come in after losing their fox! "Here's Squire Coxe!"
shouted the grooms. Out rushed the servants, out poured the gents of the
hunt, and on trotted poor me, digging into the donkey, and everybody
dying with laughter at me.

Just as I got up to the door, a horse came galloping up, and passed me;
a man jumped down, and taking off a fantail-hat, came up, very gravely,
to help me down.

"Squire," says he, "how came you by that there hanimal? Jist git down,
will you, and give it to its howner."

"Rascal!" says I, "didn't you ride off on my horse?"

"Was there ever sich ingratitude?" says the Spicy. "I found this year
oss in a pond, I saves him from drowning, I brings him back to his
master, and he calls me a rascal!"

The grooms, the gents, the ladies in the balcony, my own servants, all
set up a roar at this; and so would I, only I was so deucedly ashamed as
not to be able to laugh just then.

And so my first day's hunting ended. Tagrag and the rest declared I
showed great pluck, and want me to try again; but "no," says I, "I
_have_ been."

[Illustration:

  APRIL.—The finishing touch
]

 1840.]                              APRIL.

[Illustration]


                          CAUGHT AT CATCHING.

[Sidenote: WEATHER.
           The
           Weather-Prophet,
           foiled,
           doth loudly
           vow,
           [Illustration: _Gentle_ Sport.]
           though
           wrong before,
           I'm sure I've
           hit it now;]

      To angle o' April! Shame and wicked deed,
        Debarr'd, like March, from Anglo-Saxon lad;
      Nor May _net_ profit must the fisher heed,
        For bad it is, and so it is for-bad!

      In these—the _fence_ months—'tis of_fence_: for men
        To fish among the spawn were cruel sign:
      _John Bull_ should leave his _Hook_, and fishers then
        Should be employed in quite another _line_.

      'Twere graceless sure to fright the little _fry_
        From family peace:—the Mayor, their quiet heeding
      The _die_ has cast that _then_ they should not _die_,
        Besides 'twould plainly be against _good breeding_!

      The Thames is the _Mayor's nest_—a bitter dish
        His Lordship gives its spoilers—name of fear;
      Why 'tis admitted, even by the fish,
        _Diet of Worms_ was never more severe!

      He _tackles_ all the fishers: rightly deems
        The sink of nets a sink of sin!—for boat,
      To ply the angler, _wherry_ wicked seems;
        He will not have a single float afloat!

      In _March_, upon the Thames, _march_ no man must;
        _April_ must heed his _reign_—Invade the spot,
      And out of water he'll kick up a dust;
        The year says _May_,—but he says you _may not_.

      Woe to the mortal who shall _founder_ there!
        Let man shun Mansion House, and Lord Mayor's search;
      He, like an eagle, sits, with savage stare,
        Defying all the world to touch—his _perch_!

                                  MORAL.

      Fishers! forego your line for three months' length,
        And _fence_, don't fish, in _fence_ months now; for mind,
      Tho' every _week_ the Mayor put out his _strength_,
        If there you are not _found_ you are not _fined_!

[Illustration:

  Taking to their Eels. "The Bailiffs are coming, Oh dear! oh dear!"
]


                      APRIL.—THE FINISHING TOUCH.

I was always fond of billiards: and in former days, at Grogram's, in
Greek Street, where a few jolly lads of my acquaintance used to meet
twice a week for a game, and a snug pipe and beer, I was generally voted
the first man of the club; and could take five from John the marker
himself. I had a genius, in fact, for the game; and now that I was
placed in that station of life where I could cultivate my talents, I
gave them full play, and improved amazingly. I do say that I think
myself as good a hand as any chap in England.

The Count, and his Excellency Baron von Punter, were, I can tell you,
astonished by the smartness of my play; the first two or three rubbers
Punter beat me, but when I came to know his game, I used to knock him
all to sticks; or, at least, win six games to his four: and such was the
betting upon me: his Excellency losing large sums to the Count, who knew
what play was, and used to back me. I did not play except for shillings,
so my skill was of no great service to me.

One day I entered the billiard-room when these three gentlemen were high
in words. "The thing shall not be done," I heard Captain Tagrag say. "I
won't stand it."

"Vat, begause you would have de bird all to yourzelf, hey?" said the
Baron.

"You sall not have a single fezare of him, begar," said the Count. "Ve
vill blow you, M. de Taguerague; parole d'honneur, ve vill."

"What's all this, gents," says I, stepping in, "about birds and
feathers?"

"Oh," says Tagrag, "we were talking about—about—pigeon-shooting. The
Count, here, says he will blow a bird all to pieces at twenty yards, and
I said I wouldn't stand it, because it was regular murder."

"Oh, yase, it was bidgeon-shooting," cries the Baron: "and I know no
better sport. Have you been bidgeon-shooting, my dear Squire? De fon is
gabidal." "No doubt," says I, "for the shooters, but mighty bad sport
for the _pigeon_;" and this joke set them all a laughing ready to die. I
didn't know then what a good joke it _was_, neither; but I gave Master
Baron that day a precious good beating, and walked off with no less than
fifteen shillings of his money.

As a sporting man, and a man of fashion, I need not say that I took in
the "Flare-up," regularly; ay, and wrote one or two trifles in that
celebrated publication (one of my papers, which Tagrag subscribed for
me, Philo-pestitiæamicus, on the proper sauce for teal and widgeon; and
the other, signed Scru-tatos, on the best means of cultivating the
kidney species of that vegetable, made no small noise at the time, and
got me in the paper a compliment from the editor). I was a constant
reader of the Notices to Correspondents, and my early education having
been rayther neglected (for I was taken from my studies and set, as is
the custom in our trade, to practise on a sheep's-head at the tender age
of nine years, before I was allowed to venture on the human
countenance), I say, being thus curtailed and cut off in my classical
learning, I must confess I managed to pick up a pretty smattering of
genteel information from that treasury of all sorts of knowledge, at
least sufficient to make me a match in learning for all the noblemen and
gentlemen who came to our house. Well, on looking over the "Flare-up"
notices to correspondents, I read, one day last April, among the
notices, as follows:—

"'Automodon.' We do not know the precise age of Mr. Baker, of Covent
Garden Theatre; nor are we aware if that celebrated son of Thespis is a
married man.

"'Ducks and Green-peas' is informed, that when A plays his rook to B's
second Knight's square, and B, moving two squares with his Queen's pawn,
gives check to his adversary's Queen, there is no reason why B's Queen
should not take A's pawn, if B be so inclined.

"'F. L. S.' We have repeatedly answered the question about Madame
Vestris: her maiden name was Bartolozzi, and she married the son of
Charles Mathews, the celebrated comedian.

"'Fair Play.' The best amateur billiard and écarté player in England, is
Coxe Tuggeridge Coxe, Esq., of Portland Place, and Tuggeridgeville:
Jonathan, who knows his play, can only give him two in a game of a
hundred: and at the cards, _no_ man is his superior. Verbum sap.

"'Scipio Americanus' is a blockhead."

I read this out to the Count and Tagrag, and both of them wondered how
the Editor of that tremendous Flare-up should get such information; and
both agreed that the Baron, who still piqued himself absurdly on his
play, would be vastly annoyed by seeing me preferred thus to himself. We
read him the paragraph, and preciously angry he was. "Id is," he cried,
"the tables (or 'de _dabels_,' as he called them), de horrid dabels; gom
viz me to London, and dry a slate-table, and I vill beat you." We all
roared at this; and the end of the dispute was, that, just to satisfy
the fellow, I agreed to play his Excellency at slate-tables, or any
tables he chose.

"Gut," says he, "gut; I lif, you know, at Abednego's, in de Quadrant;
his dabels is goot; ve vill blay dere, if you vill;" and I said, I
would: and it was agreed that, one Saturday night, when Jemmy was at the
Opera, we should go to the Baron's rooms, and give him a chance.

We went, and the little Baron had as fine a supper as ever I saw; lots
of champagne (and I didn't mind drinking it), and plenty of laughing and
fun. Afterwards, down we went to billiards. "Is dish Mishter Coxsh, de
shelebrated player?" says Mr. Abednego, who was in the room, with one or
two gentlemen of his own persuasion, and several foreign noblemen,
dirty, snuffy, and hairy, as them foreigners are. "Is dish Mishter
Coxsh? blesh ma hart, it is a honer to see you, I have heard so much of
your play."

"Come, come," says I, "sir;" for I'm pretty wide awake; "none of your
gammon; you're not going to hook _me_."

"No, begar, dis fish you not catch," says Count Mace.

"Dat is gut! haw! haw!" snorted the Baron: "hook him! lieber himmel, you
might dry and hook me as well. Haw! haw!"

Well, we went to play. "Fife to four on Coxe," screams out the Count.—
"Done and done," says another nobleman. "Ponays," says the Count.—
"Done," says the nobleman. "I vill take your six crowns to four," says
the Baron.—"Done," says I; and, in the twinkling of an eye, I beat him;—
once making thirteen off the balls without stopping.

We had some more wine after this; and if you could have seen the long
faces of the other noblemen, as they pulled out their pencils and wrote
I O U's for the Count. "Va toujours, mon cher," says he to me, "you have
von for me tree hundred pounds."

"I'll blay you guineas dis time," says the Baron. "Zeven to four you
must give me, though;" and so I did: and in ten minutes _that_ game was
won, and the Baron handed over his pounds. "Two hundred and sixty more,
my dear, dear Coxe," says the Count; "you are mon ange gardien!" "Wot a
flat Mishter Coxsh ish, not to back his luck," I heard Abednego whisper
to one of the foreign noblemen.

"I'll take your seven to four, in tens," said I to the Baron. "Give me
three," says he, "and done." I gave him three, and lost the game by one.
"Dobbel, or quits," says he. "Go it," says I, up to my mettle; "Sam Coxe
never says no;"—and to it we went. I went in, and scored eighteen to his
five. "Holy Moshesh!" says Abednego, "dat little Coxsh is a vonder!
who'll take odds?"

"I'll give twenty to one," says I, "in guineas."

"Ponays, yase, done," screams out the Count.

"_Bonies_, done," roars out the Baron: and before I could speak, went
in, and, would you believe it?—in two minutes he somehow made the game!

                  *       *       *       *       *

Oh, what a figure I cut when my dear Jemmy heard of this afterwards!—In
vain I swore it was guineas: the Count and the Baron swore to ponies;
and when I refused, they both said their honour was concerned, and they
must have my life, or their money. So when the Count showed me actually
that, in spite of this bet (which had been too good to resist) won from
me, he had been a very heavy loser by the night; and brought me the word
of honour of Abednego, his Jewish friend, and the foreign noblemen, that
ponies had been betted;—why, I paid one thousand pounds sterling of good
and lawful money;—but I've not played for money since: no, no; catch me
at _that_ again, if you can.

                               MAY.                               [1840.

[Illustration]


                      MEMBERS OF THE LONDON PRESS.

[Sidenote: WEATHER.
           while forced
           his dwindling
           victims
           to confess,
           [Illustration: _A Carriage Sweep._]
           "small by
           degrees, and
           beautifully
           less."]

                               A BENEFIT.
                      "_Sich a Gettin up Stairs._"

               Sweet Gallery squeeze, you will possess
               The utmost freedom of the press;
               Crowds, looking up, still pushing go,
               With _stares_ above, and _stairs_ below;
               The soldier first, a foremost man,
               Like Bow-street culprits—_keeps the van_,
               Charges the door, whose keepers stern
               A "bob" will charge _him_ in return;
               He's _got his step_, so with light mind
               Bears all the pressure from behind;
               Feels from the rear-mob, all alive,
               A drive, though not a _carriage drive_:
               And, lo! among them, soot-grimed deep,
               A sweep, though not a _carriage sweep_.
               Baker and butcher, lass and lover;
               With one fat Falstaff falling over,
               Sure—though he _like it_ not—to go
               And _lump it_ when he gets below;
               A prize John Bull, who, bulky dunce,
               Takes both alternatives at once,
               And quickly reaches _his first floor_,
               _Dismounted_ at the Gallery Door!

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

4. Exhibition of the Royal Academy opens, at the National Gallery.

[Illustration]

408. Portrait of the President. ☞

          R.A.'s are _raised_ to power: and, presto, bang!
          "On _inner_ walls the cry is still 'they _hang_;'"
          While many a heavy sigh the artists fetch,
          "To have them _hang_ our pictures is no _ketch_."
          For half their sins did justice prompt the elves,
          Half the R.A. array would hang themselves!

[Illustration]

409. Red Deer, after LANDSEER.

[Illustration:

  MAY—A new drop scene at the Opera.
]


                  MAY.—A NEW DROP SCENE AT THE OPERA.

No lady is a lady without having a box at the Opera: so my Jemmy, who
knew as much about music,—bless her!—as I do about sanscrit, algebra, or
any other foreign language, took a prime box on the second tier. It was
what they called a double box; it really _could_ hold two, that is, very
comfortably; and we got it a great bargain—for five hundred a year!
Here, Tuesdays and Saturdays we used regularly to take our places, Jemmy
and Jemimarann sitting in front; me, behind: but as my dear wife used to
wear a large fantail gauze hat, with ostrich feathers, birds of
paradise, artificial flowers, and tags of muslin or satin, scattered all
over it, I'm blest if she didn't fill the whole of the front of the box;
and it was only by jumping and dodging, three or four times in the
course of the night, that I could manage to get a sight of the actors.
By kneeling down, and looking steady under my darling Jemmy's sleeve, I
_did_ contrive, every now and then, to have a peep of Senior Lablash's
boots, in the Puritanny, and once saw Madame Greasi's crown and
head-dress in Annybalony.

What a place that Opera is, to be sure! and what enjoyments us
aristocracy used to have! Just as you have swallowed down your three
courses (three curses I used to call them; for so, indeed, they are,
causing a deal of heartburns, headaches, doctor's bills, pills, want of
sleep, and such like)—just, I say, as you get down your three courses,
which I defy any man to enjoy properly, unless he has two hours of drink
and quiet afterwards, up comes the carriage, in bursts my Jemmy, as fine
as a duchess, and scented like our shop. "Come, my dear," says she,
"it's Normy to-night (or Annybalony, or the Nosey di Figaro, or the
Gazzylarder, as the case may be); Mr. Coster strikes off punctually at
eight, and you know it's the fashion to be always present at the very
first bar of the aperture;" and so off we budge, to be miserable for
five hours, and to have a headache for the next twelve, and all because
it's the fashion!

After the aperture, as they call it, comes the opera, which, as I am
given to understand, is the Italian for singing. Why they should sing in
Italian, I can't conceive; or why they should do nothing _but_ sing:
bless us, how I used to long for the wooden magpie in the Gazzylarder,
to fly up to the top of the church-steeple, and see the chaps with the
pitchforks to come in and carry off that wicked Don June. Not that I
don't admire Lablash, and Rubini, and his brother, Tomrubini, him who
has that fine bass voice, I mean, and acts the Corporal in the first
piece, and Don June in the second; but three hours is a _little_ too
much, for you can't sleep on those little rickety seats in the boxes.

The opera is bad enough; but what is that to the bally? You _should_
have seen my Jemmy the first night when she stopped to see it; and when
Madamsalls Fanny and Theresa Hustler came forward, along with a
gentleman, to dance, you should have seen how Jemmy stared, and our girl
blushed, when Madamsall Fanny, coming forward, stood on the tips of only
five of her toes, and raising up the other five, and the foot belonging
to them, almost to her shoulder, twirled round, and round, and round,
like a teetotum, for a couple of minutes or more; and as she settled
down, at last, on both feet, in a natural decent posture, you should
have heard how the house roared with applause, the boxes clapping with
all their might, and waving their handkerchiefs; the pit shouting,
"Bravo!" Some people, who, I suppose, were rather angry at such an
exhibition, threw bunches of flowers at her; and what do you think she
did? why, hang me, if she did not come forward, as though nothing had
happened, gather up the things they had thrown at her, smile, press them
to her heart, and began whirling round again, faster than ever!—Talk
about coolness, _I_ never saw such in all _my_ born days.

"Nasty thing!" says Jemmy, starting up in a fury; "if women _will_ act
so, it serves them right to be treated so."

"O, yes! she acts beautifully," says our friend, his Excellency, who,
along with Baron von Punter, and Tagrag, used very seldom to miss coming
to our box.

"She may act very beautifully, Munseer, but she don't dress so; and I am
very glad they threw that orange-peel and all those things at her, and
that the people waved to her to get off."

Here his Excellency, and the Baron, and Tag, set up a roar of laughter.
"My dear Mrs. Coxe," says Tag, "those are the most famous dancers in the
world; and we throw myrtle, geraniums, and lilies, and roses, at them,
in token of our immense admiration!"

"Well, I never!" said my wife; and poor Jemimarann slunk behind the
curtain, and looked as red as it almost. After the one had done, the
next begun; but when, all of a sudden, a somebody came skipping and
bounding in, like an Indian-rubber ball, flinging itself up at least six
feet from the stage, and there shaking about its legs like mad, we were
more astonished than ever!

"That's Anatole," says one of the gentlemen.

"Anna who?" says my wife, and she might well be mistaken; for this
person had a hat and feathers, a bare neck and arms, great black
ringlets, and a little calico frock, which came down to the knees.

"Anatole; you would not think he was sixty-three years old, he's as
active as a man of twenty."

"_He!_" shrieked out my wife; "what, is that there a man? For shame!
Munseer. Jemimarann, dear, get your cloak, and come along; and I'll
thank you, my dear, to call our people and let us go home."

You wouldn't think, after this, that my Jemmy, who had shown such a
horror at the bally, as they call it, should ever grow accustomed to it;
but she liked to hear her name shouted out in the crush-room, and so
would stop till the end of everything; and, law bless you! in three
weeks from that time she could look at the ballet as she would at a
dancing-dog in the streets, and would bring her double-barrelled
opera-glass up to her eyes as coolly as if she had been a born duchess.
As for me, I did at Rome as Rome does, and precious fun it used to be,
sometimes.

My friend the Baron insisted, one night, on my going behind the scenes,
where, being a subscriber, he said I had what they call my _ontray_.
Behind then I went; and such a place you never saw nor heard of! Fancy
lots of young and old gents, of the fashion, crowding round and staring
at the actresses practising their steps. Fancy yellow, snuffy
foreigners, chattering always, and smelling fearfully of tobacco. Fancy
scores of Jews, with hooked noses, and black muzzles, covered with
rings, chains, sham diamonds, and gold waistcoats. Fancy old men,
dressed in old night-gowns, with knock-knees, and dirty flesh-coloured
cotton stockings and dabs of brickdust on their wrinkled old chops, and
tow wigs (such wigs!) for the bald ones, and great tin spears in their
hands, mayhap, or else shepherd's crooks, and fusty garlands of flowers,
made of red and green baize! Fancy troops of girls, giggling,
chattering, pushing to and fro, amidst old black canvas, Gothic halls,
thrones, pasteboard Cupids, dragons, and such like; such dirt, darkness,
crowd, confusion, and gabble of all conceivable languages was never
known!

If you _could_ but have seen Munseer Anatole! Instead of looking twenty,
he looked a thousand. The old man's wig was off, and a barber was giving
it a touch with the tongs; Munseer was taking snuff himself, and a boy
was standing by, with a pint of beer from the public-house at the corner
of Charles-street.

I met with a little accident, during the three-quarters of an hour which
they allow for the entertainment of us men of fashion on the stage,
before the curtain draws up for the bally, while the ladies in the boxes
are gaping, and the people in the pit are drumming with their feet and
canes in the rudest manner possible, as though they couldn't wait.

Just at the moment before the little bell rings, and the curtain flies
up, and we scuffle off to the sides (for we always stay till the very
last moment), I was in the middle of the stage, making myself very
affable to the fair figgerantys which was spinning and twirling about
me, and asking them if they wasn't cold, and such like politeness, in
the most condescending way possible, when a bolt was suddenly withdrawn,
and down I popped, through a trap in the stage, into the place below.
Luckily, I was stopped by a piece of machinery, consisting of a heap of
green blankets, and a young lady coming up as Venus rising from the sea.
If I had not fallen so soft, I don't know what might have been the
consequence of the collusion. I never told Mrs. Coxe, for she can't bear
to hear of my paying the least attention to the fair sex.

[Illustration:

  JUNE—Striking a balance.
]

[Illustration]


                            GAME IN SEASON.

2. Epsom Races.—"Surrey for the Field."

[Illustration:

  Death of Desdemona.

  Foul—from the Moor.
]

[Sidenote: How hard
           to
           bear-o,
           ♌ ♄ ☿ ♒
           Faro
           that's
           unfair-o.]

[Illustration:

  High game.
]

                     ROULETTE AT EPSOM.—TENT SCENE.

        I'm very ill; my circulation halts
          I' the blood;
        Soh! shall I take a dose of Epsom salts,
          Or forego Epsom salts for Epsom races?
        I chose the trip before the physic-sipping,
        And very prettily I paid for tripping!

        "Start fair," I cried,—I'd often started fowl
          Out of the Moors,—but then I _did_ start fair:
        The Course of course I reach'd, and cheek by jowl
          Was standing with my _betters_, gazing there
        At a horse winning at his jockey's beck,
        As felons win the gallows—_by a neck_!

        "Tak tent!" the Scotchman says, that's "look about,"
          But, "take care _of the tent_," he should have said:
        I went within, and wish I'd gone without
          A stake, or had a good rump-steak instead;
        But I _had_ cash, and having made a set
          At them, and they at me, slap at Roulette.

        And if 'twas _natural_ to have gone within,
          I soon discovered it was very _flat_:
        A sovereign good for me it would have been
          If I had had no sovereigns,—_verbum sat_!
        I lost!—and took no _note_ when all was done,
        Except a note of how much they had won!

        I cannot say they were a _dirty_ set,
          Because they _clean'd me_ so completely out;
        A bout like this of Epsom Downs' roulette
          Teaches a mortal what he _is_ about.
        Cheating _is_ physic.—While the game's alive
        It empties pockets if it _doesn't_ thrive!

5. =Boniface=, (first Alderman of Port-soken?)

[Illustration:

  Cordial reception.
  Caught in his own gin.
]

12. Mr. Wakley declared, that Gin was his best friend—it was equal to
1000 inquests a year.

           A Palace reared! and lo! _in quest_ of gin,
           Thousands, _sans_ scruple, pass for drams within;
           Water they'd spurn, e'en from Geneva's lake,
           _Gin ever_—not Geneva's—they _will_ take:
           _In quest_ of _that_, when they no more can run,
           Wakley _his inquest_ holds, and all is done!

JUNE.—STRIKING A BALANCE.

Next door to us, in Portland-place, lived the Right Honourable the Earl
of Kilblazes, of Kilmacrasy Castle, county Kildare, and his mother, the
Dowager Countess. Lady Kilblazes had a daughter, Lady Juliana Matilda
Mac Turk, of the exact age of our dear Jemimarann; and a son, The
Honourable Arthur Wellington Anglesea Blucher Bulow Mac Turk, only ten
months older than our boy, Tug.

My darling Jemmy is a woman of spirit, and, as became her station, made
every possible attempt to become acquainted with the Dowager Countess of
Kilblazes, which her ladyship (because, forsooth, she was the daughter
of the Minister, and the Prince of Wales's great friend, the Earl of
Portansherry) thought fit to reject. I don't wonder at my Jemmy growing
so angry with her, and determining, in every way, to put her ladyship
down. The Kilblazes' estate is not so large as the Tuggeridge property,
by two thousand a-year, at least; and so my wife, when our neighbours
kept only two footmen, was quite authorized in having three; and she
made it a point, as soon as ever the Kilblazes' carriage-and-pair came
round, to have her own carriage-and-four.

Well, our box was next to theirs at the Opera; only twice as big.
Whatever masters went to Lady Juliana, came to my Jemimarann; and what
do you think Jemmy did? she got her celebrated governess, Madam de
Flicflac, away from the Countess, by offering a double salary. It was
quite a treasure, they said, to have Madame Flicflac; she had been (to
support her father, the Count, when he emigrated) a _French_ dancer at
the _Italian Opera_. French dancing, and Italian, therefore, we had at
once, and in the best style: it is astonishing how quick and well she
used to speak—the French especially.

Master Arthur Mac Turk was at the famous school of the Reverend Clement
Coddler, along with a hundred and ten other young fashionables, from the
age of three to fifteen; and to this establishment Jemmy sent our Tug,
adding forty guineas to the hundred and twenty paid every year for the
boarders. I think I found out the dear soul's reason, for, one day,
speaking about the school to a mutual acquaintance of ours and the
Kilblazes, she whispered to him, that "she never would have thought of
sending her darling boy at the rate which her next-door neighbour paid;
_their_ lad, she was sure, must be starved: however, poor people! they
did the best they could on their income."

Coddler's, in fact, was the tip-top school near London; he had been
tutor to the Duke of Buckminster, who had set him up in the school, and,
as I tell you, all the peerage and respectable commoners came to it. You
read in the bill (the snopsis, I think Coddler called it), after the
account of the charges for board, masters, extras, &c.: "Every young
nobleman (or gentleman) is expected to bring a knife and fork, spoon,
and goblet, of silver (to prevent breakage), which will not be returned;
a dressing-gown and slippers; toilet-box, pomatum, curling-irons, &c.
&c. The pupil must, on NO ACCOUNT, be allowed to have more than ten
guineas of pocket-money, unless his parents particularly desire it, or
he be above fifteen years of age. _Wine_ will be an extra charge; as are
warm, vapour, and _douche_ baths; _carriage exercise_ will be provided
at the rate of fifteen guineas per quarter. It is _earnestly requested_
that no young nobleman (or gentleman) be allowed to smoke. In a place
devoted to _the cultivation of polite literature_, such an ignoble
enjoyment were profane

                                     "CLEMENT CODDLER, M.A.,
                               "Chaplain and late tutor to his Grace the
                                         Duke of Buckminster.

 "Mount Parnassus, Richmond, Surrey."

To this establishment our Tug was sent. "Recollect, my dear," said his
mamma, "that you are a Tuggeridge by birth, and that I expect you to
beat all the boys in the school, especially that Wellington Mac Turk,
who though he is a lord's son, is nothing to you, who are the heir of
Tuggeridgeville."

Tug was a smart young fellow enough, and could cut and curl as well as
any young chap of his age; he was not a bad hand at a wig either, and
could shave, too, very prettily; but that was in the old time, when we
were not great people: when he came to be a gentleman, he had to learn
Latin and Greek, and had a deal of lost time to make up for on going to
school.

However we had no fear; for the Reverend Mr. Coddler used to send
monthly accounts of his pupils' progress, and if Tug was not a wonder of
the world, I don't know who was. It was

                      General behaviour excellent
                      English           very good
                      French            très bien
                      Latin             optimé.

and so on; he possessed all the virtues, and wrote to us every month for
money. My dear Jemmy and I determined to go and see him, after he had
been at school a quarter; we went, and were shown by Mr. Coddler, one of
the meekest, smilingest little men I ever saw, into the bed-rooms and
eating rooms (the dromitaries and refractories he called them), which
were all as comfortable as comfortable might be. "It is a holiday
to-day," said Mr. Coddler; and a holiday it seemed to be. In the
dining-room were half a dozen young gentlemen playing at cards ("all
tip-top nobility," observed Mr. Coddler);—in the bed-rooms there was
only one gent; he was lying on his bed, reading a novel and smoking
cigars. "Extraordinary genius!" whispered Coddler; "Honourable Tom
Fitz-Warter, cousin of Lord Byron's; smokes all day; and has written the
_sweetest_ poems you can imagine. Genius, my dear madam, you know,
genius must have its way." "Well, _upon_ my word," says Jemmy, "if
that's genus, I had rather that Master Tuggeridge Coxe Tuggeridge
remained a dull fellow."

"Impossible, my dear madam." said Coddler. "Mr. Tuggeridge Coxe
_couldn't_ be stupid if he _tried_."

Just then up comes Lord Claude Lollypop, third son of the Marquis of
Allycompane. We were introduced instantly, "Lord Claude Lollypop, Mr.
and Mrs. Coxe:" the little lord wagged his head, my wife bowed very low,
and so did Mr. Coddler, who, as he saw my lord making for the
play-ground, begged him to show us the way.—"Come along," says my lord;
and as he walked before us, whistling, we had leisure to remark the
beautiful holes in his jacket and elsewhere.

About twenty young noblemen (and gentlemen) were gathered round a
pastrycook's shop, at the end of the green. "That's the grub-shop," said
my lord, "where we young gentlemen wot has money buys our wittles, and
them young gentlemen wot has none, goes tick."

Then he passed a poor red-haired usher, sitting on a bench alone.
"That's Mr. Hicks, the Husher, ma'am," says my lord, "we keep him, for
he's very useful to throw stones at, and he keeps the chaps' coats when
there's a fight, or a game at cricket.—Well, Hicks, how's your mother?
what's the row now?" "I believe, my lord," said the usher, very meekly,
"there is a pugilistic encounter somewhere on the premises—the
Honourable Mr. Mac——"

"O! _come_ along," said Lord Lollypop, "come along, _this_ way, ma'am!
Go it, ye cripples!" and my lord pulled my dear Jemmy's gown in the
kindest and most familiar way, she trotting on after him, mightily
pleased to be so taken notice of, and I after her. A little boy went
running across the green. "Who is it, Petitoes?" screams my lord. "Turk
and the barber," pipes Petitoes, and runs to the pastrycook's like mad.
"Turk and the ba—," laughs out my lord, looking at us: "_hurrah! this_
way, ma'am;" and, turning round a corner he opened a door into a
court-yard, where a number of boys were collected and a great noise of
shrill voices might be heard. "Go it, Turk!" says one "Go it, barber!"
says another. "_Punch hith life out_," roars another, whose voice was
just cracked, and his clothes half a yard too short for him!

Fancy our horror, when, on the crowd making way, we saw Tug pummelling
away at the Honourable Master Mac Turk! My dear Jemmy, who don't
understand such things, pounced upon the two at once, and, with one hand
tearing away Tug, sent him spinning back into the arms of his seconds,
while, with the other, she clawed hold of Master Mac Turk's red hair,
and, as soon as she got her second hand free, banged it about his face
and ears like a good one.

"You nasty—wicked—quarrelsome—aristocratic (each word was a bang)—
aristocratic, oh! oh! oh!" Here the words stopped; for, what with the
agitation, maternal solicitude, and a dreadful kick on the shins which,
I am ashamed to say, Master Mac Turk administered, my dear Jemmy could
bear it no longer, and sunk, fainting away, in my arms.

[Illustration:

  See Swithin spout

  The water out;
]

[Illustration:

  _A Wiper-snake pattern_
]

[Illustration:

  While wet sustains

  _Highgate_.
]


                         THE MARCH TO FINCHLEY.

           Once out of town went big John Brown,
             A Sunday man so gay;
           He went with his life, and he went with his wife,
             And he went with his kids in a shay!

           The shay was like a lottery prize—
             Exceedingly hard to _draw_;
           And John Brown looked with both his eyes
             As _blank_ as ever you saw.

           Oh! very hot the summer's sun
             Shone over Somers town;
           By sweat—not slander—John was soon
             Exceedingly run down!

           With piping heat he plied his drag,
             While sinews paid the piper;
           At Highgate Hill his handkerchief
             Was turned into a "viper."

           He gave his family "a long
             And strong pull altogether;"
           But they in spite of sunshine soon
             Gave signs o£ _squally_ weather.

           John's wife survey'd her lord and shay
             With most maternal mind;
           She'd never such a load _before_,
             And so she push'd _behind_!

           So on they trudged: no half-way house
             Afforded them a sup,
           But about half-way up the hill
             John found it was "_all up_."

           With agony he used his sleeve,
             And gasping, cried, "I'm blow'd!"
           "What then befel the Browns?" I b'lieve
             _They're still upon the road!_

[Illustration: Rains and drains.]

23. Newspaper born, 1588.—Editor I.

           The first of architects, who, ere he died,
           Rear'd _columns_ more than all the world beside.

30. William Penn died, 1718.

              Although we are not of our _pencil vain_,
                Of _Pennsylvania's_ father among men
              We draw the tomb on stone; that once again
                The _Pencil_ may do honour _to the Pen_!

[Illustration:

  JULY—Down at Beulah.
]

JULY.—DOWN AT BEULAH.

Although there was a regular cut between the next-door people and us,
yet Tug and the Honourable Master Mac Turk kept up their acquaintance
over the back-garden wall, and in the stables, where they were fighting,
making friends, and playing tricks from morning to night, during the
holidays. Indeed, it was from young Mac that we first heard of Madame de
Flicflac, of whom my Jemmy robbed Lady Kilblazes, as I before have
related. When our friend, the Baron, first saw Madame, a very tender
greeting passed between them, for they had, as it appeared, been old
friends abroad. "Sapristie," said the Baron, in his lingo, "que fais tu
ici, Aménaïde?" "Et toi, mon pauvre Chicot," says she, 'est ce qu'on t'a
mis à la retraite? Il parait, que tu n'est plus Général chez Franco—"
"_Chut!_" says the Baron, putting his finger to his lips.

"What are they saying, my dear?" says my wife to Jemimarann, who had a
pretty knowledge of the language by this time.

"I don't know what '_Sapristie_' means, mamma; but the Baron asked
Madame what she was doing here? and Madame said, 'And you, Chicot, you
are no more a general at Franco.' Have I not translated rightly,
Madame?"

"Oui, mon chou, mon ange; yase, my angel, my cabbage, quite right.
Figure yourself, I have known my dear Chicot dis twenty years."

"Chicot is my name of baptism," says the Baron; "Baron Chicot de Punter
is my name." "And, being a general at Franco," says Jemmy, "means, I
suppose, being a French General?"

"Yes, I vas," said he, "General Baron de Punter, n'est il pas,
Aménaïde?"

"O, yes!" said Madame Flicflac, and laughed; and I and Jemmy laughed out
of politeness: and a pretty laughing matter it was, as you shall hear.

About this time my Jemmy became one of the Ladies-Patronesses of that
admirable Institution, "The Washerwoman's Orphans' Home;" Lady de Sudley
was the great projector of it; and the manager and chaplain, the
excellent and Reverend Sidney Slopper. His salary, as chaplain, and that
of Doctor Leitch, the physician (both cousins of her Ladyship's), drew
away five hundred pounds from the six subscribed to the Charity: and
Lady de Sudley thought a fête at Beulah Spa, with the aid of some of the
foreign Princes who were in town last year, might bring a little more
money into its treasury. A tender appeal was accordingly drawn up, and
published in all the papers:

"APPEAL.

"BRITISH WASHERWOMAN'S ORPHANS' HOME.

  "The 'Washerwoman's Orphans' Home' has now been established seven
  years; and the good which it has effected is, it may be confidently
  stated, _incalculable_. Ninety-eight orphan children of washerwomen
  have been lodged within its walls. One hundred and two British
  washerwomen have been relieved when in the last state of decay. ONE
  HUNDRED AND NINETY-EIGHT THOUSAND articles of male and female dress
  have been washed, mended, buttoned, ironed, and mangled, in the
  Establishment. And, by an arrangement with the governors of the
  Foundling, it is hoped that THE BABY-LINEN OF THAT HOSPITAL will be
  confided to the British Washerwoman's Home!

  "With such prospects before it, is it not sad, is it not lamentable
  to think, that the Patronesses of the Society have been compelled to
  reject the applications of no less than THREE THOUSAND EIGHT HUNDRED
  AND ONE BRITISH WASHERWOMEN, from lack of means for their support?
  Ladies of England! Mothers of England! to you we appeal. Is there
  one of you that will not respond to the cry in behalf of these
  deserving members of our sex?

  "It has been determined by the Ladies-Patronesses to give a fête at
  Beulah Spa, on Thursday, July 25; which will be graced with the
  first foreign and native TALENT, by the first foreign and native
  RANK; and where they beg for the attendance of every WASHERWOMAN'S
  FRIEND."

Her Highness the Princess of Schloppenzollernschwigmaringen, the Duke of
Sacks Tubbingen, His Excellency Baron Strumpff, His Excellency
Lootf-Allee-Koolee-Bismillah-Mohamed-Rusheed-Allah, the Persian
Ambassador, Prince Futtee-Jaw, Envoy from the King of Oude, His
Excellency Don Alonzo Di Cachachero-y-Fandango-y-Castañete, the Spanish
Ambassador, Count Ravioli, from Milan, the Envoy of the Republic of
Topinambo, and a host of other fashionables, promised to honour the
festival: and their names made a famous show in the bills.

I leave you to fancy what a splendid triumph for the British
Washerwoman's Home was to come off on that day. A beautiful tent was
erected, in which the Ladies-Patronesses were to meet; it was hung round
with specimens of the skill of the washerwomen's orphans, ninety-six of
whom were to be feasted in the gardens, and waited on by the
Ladies-Patronesses.

There was a fine cold collation, to which the friends of the
Ladies-Patronesses were admitted; after which, my ladies and their beaux
went strolling through the walks; Tagrag and the Count having each an
arm of Jemmy; the Baron giving an arm a-piece to Madame and Jemimarann.
Whilst they were walking whom should they light upon but poor Orlando
Crump, my successor in the perfumery and hair-cutting.

"Orlando!" says Jemimarann, blushing as red as a label, and holding out
her hand.

"Jemimar!" says he, holding out his, and turning as white as pomatum.

"_Sir!_" says Jemmy, as stately as a Duchess.

"What! madame," says poor Crump, "don't you remember your shopboy?"

"Dearest mamma, don't you recollect Orlando?" whimpers Jemimarann.

"Miss Tuggeridge Coxe," says Jemmy, "I'm surprised of you. Remember,
sir, that our position is altered, and oblige me by no more
familiarity."

"Insolent fellow!" says the Baron; "vat is dis canaille?"

"Canal yourself, Mounseer," says Orlando, now grown quite furious; he
broke away, quite indignant, and was soon lost in the crowd. Jemimarann,
as soon as he was gone, began to look very pale and ill; and her mamma,
therefore, took her to a tent, where she left her along with Madame
Flicflac and the Baron; going off herself with the other gentlemen, in
order to join us.

It appears they had not been seated very long when Madame Flicflac
suddenly sprung up, with an exclamation of joy, and rushed forward to a
friend whom she saw pass.

The Baron was left alone with Jemimarann; and, whether it was the
champagne, or that my dear girl looked more than commonly pretty, I
don't know; but Madame Flicflac had not been gone a minute when the
Baron dropped on his knees, and made her a regular declaration.

Poor Orlando Crump had found me out by this time, and was standing by my
side, listening, as melancholy as possible, to the famous Bohemian
Minne-singers, who were singing the celebrated words of the poet Gothy:

       Ich bui ya hupp lily lee, du bist ya hupp lily lee,
       Wir sind doch hupp lily lee, hupp la lily lee.
   Chorus.—Yodle-odle-odle-odle-odle-odle hupp! yodle-odle-aw-o-o-o.

They were standing with their hands in their waistcoats, as usual, and
had just come to the o-o-o, at the end of the chorus of the
forty-seventh stanza, when Orlando started: "That's a scream!" says he.
"Indeed it is," says I; "and, but for the fashion of the thing, a very
ugly scream too:" when I heard another shrill "O!" as I thought; and
Orlando bolted off, crying, "By heavens, it's _her_ voice!" "Whose
voice?" says I. "Come and see the row," says Tag; and off we went, with
a considerable number of people, who saw this strange move on his part.
We came to the tent, and there we found my poor Jemimarann fainting; her
mamma holding a smelling-bottle; the Baron, on the ground, holding a
handkerchief to his bleeding nose; and Orlando squaring at him, and
calling on him to fight if he dared.

My Jemmy looked at Crump very fierce. "Take that feller away," says she,
"he has insulted a French nobleman, and deserves transportation, at the
least."

Poor Orlando was carried off. "I've no patience with the little minx,"
says Jemmy, giving Jemimarann a pinch. "She might be a Baron's lady; and
she screams out because his Excellency did but squeeze her hand."

"Oh, mamma! mamma!" sobs poor Jemimarann, "but he was t-t-tipsy."

"T-t-tipsy! and the more shame for you, you hussy, to be offended with a
nobleman who does not know what he is doing."

[Illustration:

  AUGUST—A Tournament.
]

[Illustration]


                           RETURNING BY WATER

[Sidenote: Clock before the Sun.
           [Illustration]
           Too soon for dinner.
           Between
           Month and
           Monarch
           this difference
           is just;
           ♂ ☿ ♄ ♈
           the Month it is
           _Au_gust,
           the Monarch
           Au_gust_.]

     The _rain_ of terror's come—the horse to go
       At a smart pace has made himself to smart;
     'Tis bad enough to bear the shafts of woe,
       But who would bear the shafts of such a cart!

     What a nice party—twelve inside—to drag,
       Each fat and full, and heavy as a dunce,
     And all, besides the man wot drives the nag,
       Holding the _rains_ together—all at once!

     The horse is urged—most tired and half dead;
       "Come up," they cry—when shall we get to town?
     Fierce _pours_ the shower—_their pores_ are stopped instead,
       The more they cry _come_ up—the rain _comes down_!

     Now, you may see, by every sorry face,
       The water party wails its wretched doom,
     And in that cart—that wends with lingering pace,
       Altho' there's little _room_, there's lots of _rheum_!

17. Metropolitan Police Bill passed.

        The bill has pass'd, the sharpest bill of latter days,
        Gin shops must close by twelve o'clock o' Saturdays;
        And lively landlords now, whate'er their merits,
        After that time must not _keep up_ their spirits,
        Nor suffer the most fascinating fox
        Of all their customers to turn their _cocks_!

29. Eglintoun Tournament.

[Illustration: Running a-muck.]

          Oh! that Ayr tournament in that _ere_ shire;
          With lots of gentlemen in _male_ attire,
          And many a Don, and many a Skvire!
          Took several _days_ and lots of _knights_ to mount;
          And a great many _pages_ to recount
          Its deeds of glory—Chivalry their fount!
          Though lances _shivered_ (and no wonder, for
            'Twas cold and rainy) no sword flesh'd its hilt;
          And we'd pass all unnoticed: but, O lor!
            We draw our own existence from a _Tilt_!


                         AUGUST.—A TOURNAMENT.

"I say, Tug," said Mac Turk, one day, soon after our flare-up at Beulah,
"Kilblazes comes of age in October, and then we'll cut you out, as I
told you: the old barberess will die of spite when she hears what we are
going to do. What do you think? we're going to have a tournament!"
"What's a tournament?" says Tug, and so said his mamma, when she heard
the news; and when she knew what a tournament was, I think, really, she
_was_ as angry as Mac Turk said she would be, and gave us no peace for
days together. "What!" says she, "dress up in armour, like play-actors,
and run at each other with spears? the Kilblazes must be mad!" And so I
thought, but I didn't think the Tuggeridges would be mad too, as they
were; for, when Jemmy heard that the Kilblazes festival was to be, as
yet, a profound secret, what does she do but send down to the _Morning
Post_ a flaming account of


                "THE PASSAGE OF ARMS AT TUGGERIDGEVILLE!

"The days of chivalry are _not_ past. The fair Castellane of
T-gg-r-dgeville, whose splendid entertainments have so often been
alluded to in this paper, has determined to give one which shall exceed
in splendour even the magnificence of the middle ages. We are not at
liberty to say more; but a tournament, at which His Ex—l—ncy B-r-n de
P-nt-r, and Thomas T-gr-g, Esq., eldest son of Sir Th—s T-gr-g, are to
be the knights-defendants against all comers; a _Queen of Beauty_, of
whose loveliness every frequenter of fashion has felt the power; a
banquet, unexampled in the annals of Gunter; and a ball, in which the
recollections of ancient chivalry will blend sweetly with the soft tones
of Weippert and Collinet, are among the entertainments which the Ladye
of T-gg-ridgeville has prepared for her distinguished guests."

And now—O that I had twenty pages, instead of these miserable two, to
describe the wonders of the day!—Twenty-four knights came from Ashley's,
at two guineas a-head. We were in hopes to have had Miss Woolcombe, in
the character of Joan of Arc, but that lady did not appear. We had a
tent for the challengers, at each side of which hung what they called
_escoachings_ (like hatchments, which they put up when people die), and
underneath sat their pages, holding their helmets for the tournament.
Tagrag was in brass armour (my city connexions got him that famous
suit); his Excellency in polished steel. My wife wore a coronet,
modelled exactly after that of Queen Catharine, in _Henry V._; a tight
gilt jacket, which set off dear Jemmy's figure wonderfully, and a train
of at least forty feet. Dear Jemimarann was in white, her hair braided
with pearls. Madame de Flicflac appeared as Queen Elizabeth; and Lady
Blanche Bluenose as a Turkish princess. An alderman of London, and his
lady; two magistrates of the county, and the very pink of Croydon;
several Polish noblemen; two Italian Counts (besides _our_ Count); one
hundred and ten young officers, from Addiscombe College, in full
uniform, commanded by Major-General Sir Miles Mulligatawney, K.C.B., and
his lady; the Misses Pimminy's Finishing Establishment, and fourteen
young ladies, all in white; the Reverend Doctor Wapshot, and forty-nine
young gentlemen, of the first families, under his charge; were _some_
only of the company. I leave you to fancy that, if my Jemmy did seek for
fashion, she had enough of it on this occasion. They wanted me to have
mounted again, but my hunting day had been sufficient; besides, I ain't
big enough for a real knight: so, as Mrs. Coxe insisted on my opening
the Tournament—and I knew it was in vain to resist—the Baron and Tagrag
had undertaken to arrange so that I might come off with safety, if I
came off at all. They had procured, from the Strand Theatre, a famous
stud of hobby-horses, which they told me had been trained for the use of
the great Lord Bateman. I did not know exactly what they were till they
arrived; but as they had belonged to a Lord, I thought it was all right,
and consented; and I found it the best sort of riding, after all, to
appear to be on horseback and walk safely a-foot at the same time, and
it was impossible to come down as long as I kept on my own legs;
besides, I could cuff and pull my steed about as much as I liked,
without fear of his biting or kicking in return. As Lord of the
Tournament, they placed in my hands a lance, ornamented spirally, in
blue and gold. I thought of the pole over my old shop-door, and almost
wished myself there again, as I capered up to the battle in my helmet
and breastplate, with all the trumpets blowing and drums beating at the
time. Captain Tagrag was my opponent, and preciously we poked each
other, till prancing about, I put my foot on my horse's petticoat
behind, and down I came, getting a thrust from the Captain, at the same
time, that almost broke my shoulder-bone. "This was sufficient," they
said, "for the laws of chivalry;" and I was glad to get off so.

After that, the gentlemen riders, of whom there were no less than seven,
in complete armour, and the professionals, now ran at the ring; and the
Baron was far, far the most skilful.

"How sweetly the dear Baron rides," said my wife, who was always ogling
at him, smirking, smiling, and waving her handkerchief to him. "I say,
Sam," says a professional to one of his friends, as, after their course,
they came cantering up, and ranged under Jemmy's bower, as she called
it;—"I say, Sam, I'm blowed if that chap in harmer musn't have been one
of hus." And this only made Jemmy the more pleased; for the fact is, the
Baron had chosen the best way of winning Jemimarann by courting her
mother.

The Baron was declared conqueror at the ring; and Jemmy awarded him the
prize, a wreath of white roses, which she placed on his lance; he
receiving it gracefully, and bowing, until the plumes of his helmet
mingled with the mane of his charger, which backed to the other end of
the lists, and then, galloping back to the place where Jemimarann was
seated, he begged her to place it on his helmet: the poor girl blushed
very much, and did so. As all the people were applauding, Tagrag rushed
up, and, laying his hand on the Baron's shoulder, whispered something in
his ear, which made the other very angry, I suppose, for he shook him
off violently. "_Chacun pour soi_," says he, "_Monsieur de Taguerague_;"
which means, I am told, "every man for himself."

After this came the "Passage of Arms." Tagrag and the Baron run courses
against the other champions; ay, and unhorsed two a-piece; whereupon the
other three refused to turn out; and preciously we laughed at them, to
be sure!

"Now, it's _our_ turn, Mr. _Chicot_," says Tagrag, shaking his fist at
the Baron: "look to yourself, you infernal mountebank, for, by Jupiter!
I'll do my best;" and before Jemmy and the rest of us, who were quite
bewildered, could say a word, these two friends were charging away,
spears in hand, ready to kill each other. In vain Jemmy screamed; in
vain I threw down my truncheon: they had broken two poles before I could
say "Jack Robinson," and were driving at each other with the two new
ones. The Baron had the worst of the first course, for he had almost
been carried out of his saddle. "Hark you, Chicot!" screamed out Tagrag,
"next time look to your head;" and, next time, sure enough, each aimed
at the head of the other.

Tagrag's spear hit the right place; for it carried off the Baron's
helmet, plume, rose-wreath and all; but his Excellency hit truer still—
his lance took Tagrag on the neck, and sent him to the ground like a
stone.

"He's won! he's won!" says Jemmy, waving her handkerchief; Jemimarann
fainted, Lady Blanche screamed, and I felt so sick that I thought I
should drop. All the company were in an uproar; only the Baron looked
calm, and bowed very gracefully, and kissed his hand to Jemmy; when, all
of a sudden, a Jewish-looking man, springing over the barrier, and
followed by three more, rushed towards the Baron. "Keep the gate, Bob!"
he holloas out. "Baron, I arrest you, at the suit of Samuel Levison,
for——"

But he never said for what; shouting out, "Aha!" and "_Sapprrrristie!_"
and I don't know what, his Excellency drew his sword, dug his spurs into
his horse, and was over the poor bailiff and off before another word: he
had threatened to run through one of the bailiff's followers, Mr.
Stubbs, only that gentleman made way for him; and when we took up the
bailiff, and brought him round by the aid of a little brandy-and-water,
he told us all. "I had writ againsht him, Mishter Coxsh, but I didn't
vant to shpoil shport; and, beshidesh, I didn't know him until dey
knocked off his shteel cap!"

Here was a pretty business!

                            SEPTEMBER.                            [1840.

[Illustration:

  _A line engraving of Her Majesty._
]


                        OUT-RIDERS TO THE QUEEN.

I'll have an excursion, a bit of desertion, September diversion, and
where shall I go? If pleasure you mean, sir, at Windsor's the Queen,
sir, I'd have you go in, sir, and see all the show.—At once, gay of
heart, then for Windsor I start, and at Paddington see me _in train_ to
depart; and as steam's all the go, as you very well know, if we go
_slow_ to Windsor, we'll go _quick_ to _Slough_.—The engine's a great
'un (at desperate rate on, 'twill speed us nor heed us, while we laugh
and scoff), all happy go merry, like gunpowder, werry, as soon _as it's
fired_ the train _will go off_!—How rapid our pace is! I swear all the
places, like horses at races, do seem to fly by! Oh! how precious quick
now, and see if you're sick now, there's _Ealing_ to cure you, so
physic's my eye! See old Mr. Zitters, who dotes upon bitters, and, in
the West Indies, put _wormwood_ in shrubs: behold him alight now, to get
appetite now (still bitters for ever!) at famed _Wormwood Scrubs_.—
Here's Hanwell, where Smilem now weeps in th' Asylum; through
_moonshine_ and _credit_ his trade cut its stick; woe followed his
laughter, his wits they went after; a lunatic victim to _Luna_ and
_tick_!—Well now we're at Slough, and no farther need go, our
_raillery's_ over, the train has cried "_wo!_"—But the "bus," out and
in, stows away thick and thin; dirt and clean, fat and lean, there for
Windsor they pack; the sorry nags speed, very sorry indeed, with a whip
at the flank and a load at the back.—Now all in a bustle, we rush to the
Castle, and here comes the Queen ever smiling and gay, Hurrah! and God
save her! she could not look braver; but those jockies in livery, pray
_who are they?_—Oh! keep back your sneers, and hold in your jeers,
they're her Majesty's ministers, princes, and peers. With their dingy
blue jackets, and collars of red, their old Windsor uniforms, looking so
dead; they might well pass for "_Uniform Postmen_" instead!—Now farewell
and adieu to the Queen's retinue: for onward we strode, in the Royal
abode, where fine ancient paintings, paraded to view, are shown by an
ignorant thick-headed dunce, whose brogue murders Masters and English at
once.—"Look, here is, an' plase ye, _Paul-very-unaisy_, and bad luck if
there an't a rale _Remembrant_:" so if _Dan_ did but follow the old
fellow's tail, he'd be quite pleased to hear him call Raphael
"_Rapale!_"—But it's going to rain, and although, to a man, we would
have the Queen's reign be as long as it can; yet as soaking's "no go,"
we must rush back to Slough, where panting and gasping for breath we are
dinn'd, sir—with "What is the matter? you're quite out of _Wind-sir_."

[Illustration:

  SEPTEMBER—Over-boarded and Under-lodged.
]


               SEPTEMBER.—OVER-BOARDED AND UNDER-LODGED.

We had no great reason to brag of our tournyment at Tuggeridgeville:
but, after all, it was better than the turn-out at Kilblazes, where poor
Lord Heydownderry went about in a black velvet dressing-gown, and the
Emperor Napoleon Bonypart appeared in a suit of armour, and silk
stockings, like Mr. Pell's friend, in "Pickwick;" we, having employed
the gentlemen from Ashley's Anti-theatre, had some decent sport for our
money.

We never heard a word from the Baron, who had so distinguished himself
by his horsemanship, and had knocked down (and very justly) Mr. Nabb,
the bailiff, and Mr. Stubbs, his man, who came to lay hands upon him. My
sweet Jemmy seemed to be very low in spirits after his departure, and a
sad thing it is to see her in low spirits: on days of illness she no
more minds giving Jemimarann a box on the ear, or sending a plate of
muffins across a table at poor me, than she does taking her tea.

Jemmy, I say, was very low in spirits; but, one day (I remember it was
the day after Captain Higgins called, and said he had seen the Baron at
Boulogne), she vowed that nothing but change of air would do her good,
and declared that she should die unless she went to the sea-side in
France. I knew what this meant, and that I might as well attempt to
resist her, as to resist Her Gracious Majesty in Parliament assembled;
so I told the people to pack up the things, and took four places on
board the "Grand Turk" steamer for Boulogne.

The travelling carriage, which, with Jemmy's thirty-seven boxes and my
carpet-bag, was pretty well loaded, was sent on board the night before;
and we, after breakfasting in Portland Place (little did I think it was
the—but, poh! never mind), went down to the Custom House in the other
carriage, followed by a hackney-coach and a cab, with the servants and
fourteen band-boxes and trunks more, which were to be wanted by my dear
girl in the journey.

The road down Cheapside and Thames Street need not be described; we saw
the Monument, a memento of the wicked popish massacre of Saint
Bartholomew;—why erected here I can't think, as Saint Bartholomew's is
in Smithfield,—we had a glimpse of Billingsgate, and of the Mansion
House, where we saw the two-and-twenty shilling coal-smoke coming out of
the chimneys, and were landed at the Custom House in safety.

Fourteen porters came out, and each took a package with the greatest
civility; calling Jemmy her ladyship, and me your honour; ay, and your
honouring and my ladyshipping even my man and the maid in the cab.

I somehow felt all over quite melancholy at going away: "Here, my fine
fellow," says I to the coachman, who was standing very respectful,
holding his hat in one hand and Jemmy's jewel-case in the other, "here,
my fine chap," says I, "here's six shillings for you;" for I did not
care for the money.

"Six what?" says he.

"Six shillings, fellow!" shrieks Jemmy; "and twice as much as your
fare."

"Feller, marm!" says this insolent coachman; "feller yourself, marm: do
you think I'm a-going to kill my horses, and break my precious back, and
bust my carriage, and carry you, and your kids, and your traps, for six
hog?" And with this the monster dropped his hat, with my money in it,
and doubling his fist, put it so very near my nose that I really thought
he would have made it bleed. "My fare's heighteen shillings," says he,
"haint it?—hask hany of these gentlemen."

"Why, it ain't more than seventeen and six," says one of the fourteen
porters; "but, if the gen'l'man _is_ a gen'l'man, he can't give no less
than a suffering any how."

I wanted to resist, and Jemmy screamed like a Turk: but, "Holloa!" says
one; "What's the row?" says another; "Come, dub up!" roars a third: and
I don't mind telling you, in confidence, that I was so frightened that I
took out the sovereign and gave it. My man and Jemmy's maid had
disappeared by this time; they always do when there's a robbery or a row
going on.

I was going after them. "Stop, Mr. Ferguson," pipes a young gentleman of
about thirteen, with a red livery waistcoat that reached to his ankles,
and every variety of button, pin, string, to keep it together: "Stop,
Mr. Heff," says he, taking a small pipe out of his mouth, "and don't
forgit the cabman."

"What's your fare, my lad?" says I.

"Why, let's see—yes—ho!—my fare's seven-and-thirty and eightpence eggs—
ackly."

The fourteen gentlemen, holding the luggage, here burst out and laughed
very rudely indeed; and the only person who seemed disappointed was, I
thought, the hackney-coachman. "Why, _you_ rascal!" says Jemmy, laying
hold of the boy, "do you want more than the coachman?"

"Don't rascal _me_, marm!" shrieks the little chap in return. "What's
the coach to me? Vy, you may go in an omlibus for sixpence if you like;
vy don't you go and buss it, marm? Vy did you call my cab, marm? Vy am I
to come forty mile, from Scarlot Street, Po'tl'nd Place, and not git my
fare, marm?"

This speech, which takes some time to write down, was made in about the
fifth part of a second; and, at the end of it, the young gentleman
hurled down his pipe, and, advancing towards Jemmy, doubled his fist,
and seemed to challenge her to fight. My dearest girl now turned from
red to be as pale as white Windsor, and fell into my arms; what was I to
do? I called, "Policeman!" but a policeman wont interfere in Thames
Street; robbery is licensed there: what was I to do? Oh! my heart beats
when I think of what my Tug did!

As soon as this young cab chap put himself into a fighting attitude,
Master Tuggeridge Coxe—who had been standing by, laughing very rudely, I
thought—Master Tuggeridge Coxe, I say, flung his jacket suddenly into
his mamma's face (the brass buttons made her start, and recovered her a
little), and, before we could say a word, was in the ring in which we
stood (formed by the porters, nine orangemen and women, I don't know how
many newspaper boys, hotel cads, and old clothesmen), and, whirling
about two little white fists in the face of the gentleman in the red
waistcoat, who brought a great pair of black ones up to bear on the
enemy, was engaged in an instant.

But, law bless you! Tug hadn't been at Richmond School for nothing; and
_milled_ away—one, two, right and left—like a little hero as he is, with
all his dear mother's spirit in him: first came a crack which sent his
white hat spinning over the gentleman's cab, and scattered among the
crowd a vast number of things which the cabman kept in it,—such as a
ball of string, a piece of candle, a comb, a whip-lash, a little
warbler, a slice of bacon, &c. &c.

The cabman seemed sadly ashamed of this display, but Tug gave him no
time: another blow was planted on his cheek-bone; and a third, which hit
him straight on the nose, sent this rude cabman straight down to the
ground.

"Brayvo, my lord!" shouted all the people around.

"I won't have no more, thank yer," said the little cabman, gathering
himself up; "give us over my fare, vil yer, and let me git away?"

"What's your fare _now_, you cowardly little thief?" says Tug.

"Vy, then, two-and-eightpence," says he, "go along,—you _know_ it is:"
and two-and-eightpence he had; and everybody applauded Tug, and hissed
the cab-boy, and asked Tug for something to drink.

I now thought our troubles would soon be over; mine were very nearly so
in one sense at least; for after Mrs. Coxe, and Jemimarann, and Tug, and
the maid, and valet, and valuables had been handed across, it came to my
turn. I had often heard of people being taken up by a _plank_, but
seldom of their being set down by one. Just as I was going over, the
vessel rode off a little, the board slipped, and down I soused into the
water. You might have heard Mrs. Coxe's shriek as far as Gravesend; it
rung in my ears as I went down, all grieved at the thought of leaving
her a disconsolate widder. Well, up I came again, and caught the brim of
my beaver hat—though I have heard that drowning men catch at straws:—I
floated, and hoped to escape by hook or by crook; and, luckily, just
then I felt myself suddenly jerked by the waist-band of my whites, and
found myself hauled up in air at the end of a boat-hook, to the sound of
"yeho! yeho! yehoi! yehoi!" and so I was dragged aboard. I was put to
bed, and had swallowed so much water that it took a very considerable
quantity of brandy to bring it to a proper mixture in my inside; in
fact, for some hours I was in a very deplorable state.

[Illustration:

  OCTOBER—Notice to quit.
]

[Illustration]


                           MEDICAL STUDENTS.

1. Medical Schools open.


                           DOCTORS' COMMONS.

[Sidenote: This month, tho'
           not muggy,
           Improves by the mug;
           And people caught
           _ale_-ing,
           Repair to brown jug.]

[Illustration:

  _Jack and gill._
]

[Illustration:

  _Brougham Butterfly._
]

          Throw Physic to the dogs! A pipe-cheroot—
            Pilot—and life-preserver—_voilà tout_!
          A little lecture now and then to boot—
            A school or hospital to bustle thro'—
          A few hard terms—on easy terms—to keep,
          Then brown stout—bagatelle—half-slew'd and sleep:

          The Hall's _not_ passed! but very oft _passed by_;
            _Hospital_ visits Students fain _ward_ off;
          With _patients_ they're _impatient_—and the eye
            Glances from book to beer—anon they scoff
          At subjects—Somervile—and sick-inspection,
          Cut up the section—and abjure dissection!

          A blessed School of Physic—half-and-half!
            The Lushington of each young Doctors' Commons;
          Medical Students—sons of gin and chaff—
            Going to pot—for heavy—"reg'lar rum 'uns"—
          Porter or spirits sitting down to swill,
          And every smoking _Jack_ bless'd with his _gill_.

22. Lord Brougham reported dead.

  "_The Brougham or Meadow Brown Butterfly, is seen in October, flies
  low, and wanders about all parts of England and Scotland. Between
  its wings it carries a remarkable profile of Lord Brougham. The
  Caterpillar is chequered in green and black squares, resembling
  those on plaid trousers._"—Juvenile Natural History.

[Illustration:

  _Heartless Hoax._
]

          I'd be a butterfly, spreading my pinions,
            All through the future, and far after fame;
          I'd die by chance to astound the press minions;
            I'd see when dead what they'd do with my name.
          I'd have a carriage, and when it had spill'd me,
            Wheel O, and Shafto, and Leader, and all,
          If a hoax were got up to announce it had kill'd me,
            Just when my death all the land would appal,
                    I'd be a butterfly!
                    I'd be a butterfly!
              I'd come to life again safe after all:


                        OCTOBER.—NOTICE TO QUIT.

Well, we arrived at Boulogne; and Jemmy, after making inquiries, right
and left, about the Baron, found that no such person was known there;
and being bent, I suppose, at all events, on marrying her daughter to a
lord, she determined to set off for Paris, where, as he had often said,
he possessed a magnificent——, hotel he called it; and I remember Jemmy
being mightily indignant at the idea; but hotel, we found afterwards,
means only a house in French, and this reconciled her. Need I describe
the road from Boulogne to Paris? or, need I describe that Capitol
itself? Suffice it to say that we made our appearance there, at
Murisse's Hotel, as became the family of Coxe Tuggeridge; and saw
everything worth seeing in the metropolis in a week. It nearly killed
me, to be sure; but, when you're on a pleasure party in a foreign
country you must not mind a little inconvenience of this sort.

Well: there is, near the city of Paris, a splendid road and row of
trees, which, I don't know why, is called the Shandeleezy, or Elysian
Fields, in French: others, I have heard, call it the Shandeleery; but
mine I know to be the correct pronunciation. In the middle of this
Shandeleezy is an open space of ground, and a tent, where, during the
summer, Mr. Franconi, the French Ashley, performs with his horses and
things. As everybody went there, and we were told it was quite the
thing, Jemmy agreed that we should go too; and go we did. It's just like
Ashley's: there's a man just like Mr. Piddicombe, who goes round the
ring in a huzzah-dress, cracking a whip; there are a dozen Miss
Woolfords, who appear like Polish Princesses, Dihannas, Sultannas,
Cachuchas, and heaven knows what! There's the fat man, who comes in with
the twenty-three dresses on, and turns out to be the living skeleton!
There's the clowns, the sawdust, the white horse that dances a hornpipe,
the candles stuck in hoops, just as in our own dear country.

My dear wife, in her very finest clothes, with all the world looking at
her, was really enjoying this spectacle (which doesn't require any
knowledge of the language, seeing that the dumb animals don't talk it),
when there came in, presently, "the great Polish act of the Sarmatian
horse-tamer," on eight steeds, which we were all of us longing to see.
The horse-tamer, to music twenty miles an hour, rushed in on four of his
horses, leading the other four, and skurried round the ring. You
couldn't see him for the sawdust, but everybody was delighted, and
applauded like mad. Presently you saw there were only three horses in
front; he had slipped one more between his legs, another followed, and
it was clear that the consequences would be fatal, if he admitted any
more. The people applauded more than ever; and when, at last, seven and
eight were made to go in, not wholly, but sliding dexterously in and
out, with the others, so that you did not know which was which, the
house, I thought, would come down with applause; and the Sarmatian
horse-tamer bowed his great feathers to the ground. At last the music
grew slower, and he cantered leisurely round the ring; bending,
smirking, see-sawing, waving his whip, and laying his hand on his heart,
just as we have seen the Ashley's people do.

But fancy our astonishment, when, suddenly, this Sarmatian horse-tamer,
coming round with his four pair at a canter, and being opposite our box,
gave a start, and a—hupp! which made all of his horses stop stock-still
at an instant!

"Albert!" screamed my dear Jemmy: "Albert! Bahbahbah—baron!"

The Sarmatian looked at her for a minute; and turning head over heels
three times, bolted suddenly off his horses, and away out of our sight.

It was HIS EXCELLENCY THE BARON DE PUNTER!

Jemmy went off in a fit, as usual, and we never saw the Baron again; but
we heard afterwards that Punter was an apprentice of Franconi's, and had
run away to England, thinking to better himself, and had joined Mr.
Richardson's army; but Mr. Richardson, and then London, did not agree
with him; and we saw the last of him as he sprung over the barriers at
the Tuggeridgeville tournament.

"Well, Jemimarann," says Jemmy, in a fury, "you shall marry Tagrag; and
if I can't have a baroness for a daughter, at least you shall be a
baronet's lady!" Poor Jemimarann only sighed; she knew it was of no use
to remonstrate.

[Illustration:

  THE HEIGHT OF SPECULATION—Groundless Expectations.
]

Paris grew dull to us after this; and we were more eager than ever to go
back to London; for what should we hear, but that that monster,
Tuggeridge, of the city—old Tug's black son, forsooth!—was going to
contest Jemmy's claim to the property, and had filed I don't know how
many bills against us in Chancery! Hearing this, we set off immediately,
and we arrived at Boulogne, and set off in that very same Grand Turk
which had brought us to France.

If you look in the bills, you will see that the steamers leave London on
Saturday morning, and Boulogne on Saturday night; so that there is often
not an hour between the time of arrival and departure. Bless us! bless
us! I pity the poor Captain that, for twenty-four hours at a time, is on
a paddle-box, roaring out, "Ease her! Stop her!" and the poor servants,
who are laying out breakfast, lunch, dinner, tea, supper;—breakfast,
lunch, dinner, tea, supper again;—for layers upon layers of travellers,
as it were; and, most of all, I pity that unhappy steward, with those
unfortunate tin basins that he must always keep an eye over.

Little did we know what a storm was brooding in our absence, and little
were we prepared for the awful, awful fate that hung over our
Tuggeridgeville property.

Biggs, of the great house of Higgs, Biggs, and Blatherwick, was our man
of business: when I arrived in London I heard that he had just set off
to Paris after me. So we started down to Tuggeridgeville instead of
going to Portland Place. As we came through the lodge-gates we found a
crowd assembled within them; and there was that horrid Tuggeridge on
horseback, with a shabby-looking man, called Mr. Scapgoat, and his man
of business, and many more. "Mr. Scapgoat," says Tuggeridge, grinning,
and handing him over a sealed paper, "here's the lease; I leave you in
possession, and wish you good morning."

"In possession of what?" says the rightful lady of Tuggeridgeville,
leaning out of the carriage-window. She hated black Tuggeridge, as she
called him, like poison: the very first week of our coming to Portland
Place, when he called to ask restitution of some plate which he said was
his private property, she called him a base-born blackamoor, and told
him to quit the house. Since then there had been law-squabbles between
us without end, and all sorts of writings, meetings, and arbitrations.

"Possession of my estate of Tuggeridgeville, madam," roars he, "left me
by my father's will, which you have had notice of these three weeks, and
know as well as I do."

"Old Tug left no will," shrieked Jemmy; "he didn't die to leave his
estates to blackamoors—to negroes—to base-born mulatto story-tellers; if
he did, may I be——"

"Oh hush! dearest mamma," says Jemimarann. "Go it again, mother!" says
Tug, who is always sniggering.

"What is this business, Mr. Tuggeridge?" cried Tagrag (who was the only
one of our party that had his senses); "what is this will?"

"Oh, it's merely a matter of form," said the lawyer, riding up. "For
Heaven's sake, madam, be peaceable; let my friends, Higgs, Biggs, and
Blatherwick, arrange with me. I am surprised that none of their people
are here. All that you have to do is to eject us; and the rest will
follow, of course."

"Who has taken possession of this here property?" roars Jemmy, again.

"My friend, Mr. Scapgoat," said the lawyer. Mr. Scapgoat grinned.

"Mr. Scapgoat," said my wife, shaking her fist at him (for she is a
woman of no small spirit), "if you don't leave this ground, I'll have
you pushed out with pitchforks, I will, you and your beggarly
blackamoor, yonder." And, suiting the action to the word, she clapped a
stable-fork into the hands of one of the gardeners, and called another,
armed with a rake, to his help, while young Tug set the dog at their
heels, and I hurrahed for joy to see such villainy so properly treated.

"That's sufficient, ain't it?" said Mr. Scapgoat, with the calmest air
in the world. "Oh, completely," said the lawyer. "Mr. Tuggeridge, we've
ten miles to dinner. Madam, your very humble servant." And the whole
posse of them rode away.

                            NOVEMBER.                             [1840.

[Illustration]


                             LONDON SMOKE.

[Sidenote: _First Day of Term._
           [Illustration]
           The
           field-sports'
           rule reversed
           by legal
           wags,
           [Illustration]
           _He clips._
           Bags do not
           bear
           the fox,
           but foxes,
           bags.
           [Illustration]
           _Orange Lodge._]

         Smoke rules the roast! November, foggy, drear;
           Oh! when from darkness will its days desist?
         Month of suspicion, that leaves all to clear,
           For though nought's _stolen_, everything is _mist_!

         It is a bully month, whose _vapouring_ flies
           Wherever man is found, or woman walks;
         An equal favourer of dis-_guise_ and _Guys_,
           Assassin patron _both_ of knives and _Faukes_!

         Densely impervious is its dark-winged air,
           Driver of soot from roofs and chimney stacks,
         London its fort—it is accounted there
           _The Great Emancipator of the blacks!_

         Smoke is its sister, and assister too;
           Protean creature, taking every form,—
         Now gently rising from an Irish stew,
           Now rushing from a steamer in a storm!

         Smoke; lo! it curleth from the Meersham fine,
           Say it dissolves—so is _mere sham_ to boot—
         Clearly _as_-cended from the female line,
           At all events, it comes from a _she root_!

         Now it runs up a pipe, with odorous charms,
           Bringing effluvia from the flue: who dips
         In heraldry, will see its coat of arms
           Should bear the _barber's_ motto of "_Eclipse_."

         Smoke will have sway; a very dingy yoke
           It keeps us under, and 'tis time we broke it;
         Alas! we can't, and e'en our very joke,
           Reader, we find is nothing till you smoke it.

         Smoke and November, then, go hand in hand,
           Till time dismiss them thro' his "chaos" gates;
         Time is a man of taste, he clears the land,
           And just like smoke itself—_he vapour hates_!


5. William the Third landed.

                                           _Oranges_ come in.
         All Orange lodges are by law forbad!
           How so!—When into Bartolph Lane one dodges,
         And finds, in plain defiance, man and lad,
           Christian and Jew, all keeping Orange lodges?

11. St. Martin. (Patron of Betty.)

[Illustration:

  NOVEMBER—Law-Life Assurance.
]


                     NOVEMBER.—LAW-LIFE ASSURANCE.

We knew not what this meant, until we received a strange document from
Higgs, in London; which begun, "Middlesex to wit. Samuel Cox, late of
Portland Place, in the city of Westminster, in the said County, was
attached to answer Samuel Scapgoat, of a plea, wherefore, with force and
arms he entered into one messuage, with the appurtenances, which John
Tuggeridge, Esq., demised to the said Samuel Scapgoat, for a term which
is not yet expired, and ejected him." And it went on to say, that "we,
with force of arms, viz., with swords, knives, and staves, had ejected
him." Was there ever such a monstrous falsehood? when we did but stand
in defence of our own; and isn't it a sin, that we should have been
turned out of our rightful possessions upon such a rascally plea?

Higgs, Biggs, and Blatherwick had evidently been bribed; for, would you
believe it? they told us to give up possession at once, as a will was
found, and we could not defend the action. My Jemmy refused their
proposal with scorn, and laughed at the notion of the will: she
pronounced it to be a forgery, a vile blackamoor forgery; and believes
to this day that the story of its having been made thirty years ago in
Calcutta, and left there with old Tug's papers, and found there, and
brought to England, after a search made by order of Tuggeridge, junior,
is a scandalous falsehood.

Well, the cause was tried. Why need I say anything concerning it? What
shall I say of the Lord Chief Justice but that he ought to be ashamed of
the wig he sits in? What of Mr.——, and Mr.——, who exerted their
influence against justice and the poor? On our side, too, was no less a
man than Mr. Serjeant Binks, who, ashamed I am, for the honour of the
British bar, to say it, seemed to have been bribed too; for he actually
threw up his case! Had he behaved like Mr. Mulligan, his junior—and to
whom, in this humble way, I offer my thanks—all might have been well. I
never knew such an effect produced, as when Mr. Mulligan, appearing for
the first time in that court, said, "Standing here, upon the pidestal of
secred Thamis, seeing around me the arnymints of a profission I rispict;
having before me a vinnerable Judge, and an elightened Jury—the
counthry's glory, the netion's cheap defender, the poor man's priceless
palladium—how must I thrimble, my Lard, how must the blush bejew my
cheek—(somebody cried out '_O cheeks!_' In the court there was a
dreadful roar of laughing; and when order was established, Mr. Mulligan
continued)—my Lard, I heed them not; I come from a counthry accustomed
to opprission, and as that counthry—yes, my Lard, _that Ireland_ (do not
laugh, I am proud of it)—is ever, in spite of her tyrants, green, and
lovely, and beautiful; my client's cause, likewise, will rise shuperior
to the malignant imbecility—I repeat, the MALIGNANT IMBECILITY of those
who would thrample it down; and in whose teeth, in my client's name, in
my counthry's, aye, and _my own_, I, with folded arrums, hurl a scarnful
and eternal defiance!"

"For Heaven's sake, Mr. Milligan"—"MULLIGAN, ME LARD," cried my
defender—"Well, Mulligan, then; be calm, and keep to your brief."

Mr. Mulligan did; and, for three hours and a quarter, in a speech
crammed with Latin quotations, and unsurpassed for eloquence, he
explained the situation of me and my family; the romantic manner in
which Tuggeridge, the elder, gained his fortune, and by which it
afterwards came to my wife; the state of Ireland; the original and
virtuous poverty of the Coxes—from which he glanced passionately, for a
few minutes (until the Judge stopped him), to the poverty of his own
country; my excellence as a husband, father, landlord; my wife's, as a
wife, mother, landlady. All was in vain—the trial went against us.

I was soon taken in execution for the damages; five hundred pounds of
law expenses of my own, and as much more of Tuggeridge's. He would not
pay a farthing, he said, to get me out of a much worse place than the
Fleet.

I need not tell you that along with the land went the house in town and
the money in the funds. Tuggeridge, he who had thousands before, had it
all.

And when I was in prison who do you think would come and see me? None of
the Barons, nor Counts, nor Foreign Ambassadors, nor Excellencies, who
used to fill our house, and eat and drink at our expense,—not even the
ungrateful Tagrag!

I could not help now saying to my dear wife, "See, my love, we have been
gentlefolks for exactly a year, and a pretty life we have had of it. In
the first place, my darling, we gave grand dinners, and everybody
laughed at us."

"Yes, and recollect how ill they made you," cries my daughter.

"Then you must make a country gentleman of me."

"And send pa into dunghills," roared Tug.

"Then you must go to operas, and pick up foreign Barons and Counts."

"O, thank heaven! dearest papa, that we are rid of them," cries my
little Jemimarann, looking almost happy, and kissing her old pappy.

"And you must make a fine gentleman of Tug, and send him to a fine
school."

"And I give you my word," says Tug, "I'm as ignorant a chap as ever
lived."

"You're an insolent saucebox," says Jemmy; "you've learned that at your
fine school."

"I've learned something else, too, ma'am; ask the boys if I haven't,"
grumbles Tug.

"You hawk your daughter about, and just escape marrying her to a
swindler."

"And drive off poor Orlando," whimpered my girl. "Silence, Miss," says
Jemmy, fiercely.

"You insult the man whose father's property you inherited, and bring me
into this prison, without hope of leaving it; for he never can help us
after all your bad language." I said all this very smartly; for the fact
is, my blood was up at the time, and I determined to rate my dear girl
soundly.

"Oh! Sammy," said she, sobbing (for the poor thing's spirit was quite
broken), "it's all true; I've been very, very foolish and vain, and I've
punished my dear husband and children by my follies, and I do so, so
repent them!" Here, Jemimarann at once burst out crying, and flung
herself into her mamma's arms, and the pair roared and sobbed for ten
minutes together; even Tug looked queer: and as for me, it's a most
extraordinary thing, but I'm blest if seeing them so miserable didn't
make me quite happy. I don't think for the whole twelve months of our
good fortune I had ever felt so gay as in that dismal room in the Fleet
where I was locked up.

Poor Orlando Crump came to see us every day; and we, who had never taken
the slightest notice of him, in Portland Place, and treated him so
cruelly that day, at Beulah Spa, were only too glad of his company now.
He used to bring books for my girl, and a bottle of sherry for me; and
he used to take home Jemmy's fronts, and dress them for her; and when
locking-up time came, he used to see the ladies home to their little
three-pair bed-room, in Holborn, where they slept now, Tug and all. "Can
the bird forget its nest?" Orlando used to say (he was a romantic young
fellow, that's the truth, and blew the flute, and read Lord Byron,
incessantly, since he was separated from Jemimarann); "Can the bird, let
loose in eastern climes, forget its home? Can the rose cease to remember
its beloved bulbul?—Ah! no. Mr. Cox, you made me what I am, and what I
hope to die—a hairdresser. I never see a curling-irons before I entered
your shop, or knew Naples from brown Windsor. Did you not make over your
house, your furniture, your emporium of perfumery, and nine-and-twenty
shaving customers, to me? Are these trifles? Is Jemimarann a trifle? if
she will allow me to call her so. O, Jemimarann! your pa found me in the
workhouse, and made me what I am. Conduct me to my grave, and I never,
never shall be different!" When he had said this, Orlando was so much
affected, that he rushed suddenly on his hat, and quitted the room.

Then Jemimarann began to cry too. "O, pa!" said she, "isn't he, isn't he
a nice young man?"

"I'm _hanged_ if he ain't," says Tug. "What do you think of his giving
me eighteenpence yesterday, and a bottle of lavender water for
Mimarann?"

"He might as well offer to give you back the shop, at any rate," says
Jemmy.

"What! to pay Tuggeridge's damages? My dear, I'd sooner die than give
Tuggeridge the chance."

[Illustration:

  DECEMBER—Christmas Bustle.
]

 1840.]                            DECEMBER.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: _Grate_ Wind.]

[Illustration: Men and Measures.]

[Illustration: Boxing Day.]

[Illustration: A Muff-in-Belle.]


                            FAT CATTLE SHOW.

December should be a cheerful month, weather or no. It should be a warm
one too, though never so cold. People blow their fires and use their
bellows within, while the wind bellows without. Lawyers are glad over
_Coke_. Men _take measures_ to secure the comfort of their bodies, and
preserve the coats of their stomachs. Though the Legislature does not
sit, the middle classes rejoice in the carrying of _many of their
bills_. Pastrycooks begin to _mince matters_; and "eyes" are turned
towards "pies." Politicians affect sincerity; and _Peel, tout_ _sweet_,
becomes _candid_. _Gross_ acts of plum-puddingizing are effected by
means of a _grocer_; and _Plum-tree-street_ is then the sweetest
locality in St. Giles's. The Irish daily find fresh _raisins_ for
flocking there. With the sale of plums money gets _current_; but the
sovereign is just now more valued than ever, and, at the great theatres,
_Stirling_ is all the go. The markets grow lively, and Smithfield puts
forth its show. Pigs have lots of stuffing, and get so heavy that it is
quite common to ask for a _pig of lead_. About oxen and sheep there is a
decided _ignis fat-you-us_. Beasts visit beasts, and human fat cattle—to
survey the quadrupedal—walk in, _plump_. Butchers display fine _traits_.
_Boxing day_ arrives, and with it the _knocks_ of tradesmen, but they
only make a _hit_ when they are paid. People are obliged to wait for
their own _Nox_ till _night_. Merry drinks and games then stir not the
fire, but the fire-side. The _younger_ branches of families are indulged
in wine that is _elder_, universal _supperage_ supplies the place of
universal suffrage; and the only ballot is for the bean in the cake.
Christmas is as brave a fellow on land as ever Admiral _Winter_ was at
sea, and should be toasted accordingly. He lights our fires, and leaves
few without fuel:—he tows up our colliers to warm our toes; and, though
he is too kind to sink the barges, he always _scuttles the coals_! He is
no revolutionist, for, whilst warming the _little_, he has a respect for
the _grate_. "He is," says the Frenchman, "our defender, by _de_
_fender_; and if he do seem cold, it is only because he is neither a
_bore_ nor a _muff_."

[Illustration: 15. Mrs. Trimmer d. 1810.]

    Hurrah! for jolly Christmas, boys! his days are coming fast;
    When rod is nought but rod'montade, and birch becomes bombast.


                      DECEMBER.—CHRISTMAS BUSTLE.

Tuggeridge vowed that I should finish my days there, when he put me in
prison. It appears that we both had reason to be ashamed of ourselves,
and were, thank God! I learned to be sorry for my bad feelings towards
him, and he actually wrote to me, to say,—

"Sir,—I think you have suffered enough for faults which, I believe, do
not lie with you, so much as your wife; and I have withdrawn my claims
which I had against you while you were in wrongful possession of my
father's estates. You must remember that when, on examination of my
father's papers, no will was found, I yielded up his property, with
perfect willingness, to those who I fancied were his legitimate heirs.
For this I received all sorts of insults from your wife and yourself
(who acquiesced in them); and when the discovery of a will in India
proved _my_ just claims you must remember how they were met, and the
vexatious proceedings with which you sought to oppose them.

"I have discharged your lawyer's bill; and, as I believe you are more
fitted for the trade you formerly exercised than for any other, I will
give five hundred pounds for the purchase of a stock and shop when you
shall find one to suit you.

"I enclose a draft for twenty pounds, to meet your present expenses. You
have, I am told, a son, a boy of some spirit; if he likes to try his
fortune abroad, and go on board an Indiaman, I can get him an
appointment; and am, Sir, your obedient servant,

                                                       JOHN TUGGERIDGE."

It was Mrs. Breadbasket, the housekeeper, who brought this letter, and
looked mighty contemptuous as she gave it.

"I hope, Breadbasket, that your master will send me my things, at any
rate," cries Jemmy. "There's seventeen silk and satin dresses, and a
whole heap of trinkets, that can be of no earthly use to him."

"Don't Breadbasket me, mem, if you please, mem. My master says that them
things is quite obnoxious to your spere of life. Breadbasket, indeed!"
and so she sailed out.

Jemmy hadn't a word; she had grown mighty quiet since we had been in
misfortune: but my daughter looked as happy as a queen; and Tug, when he
heard of the ship, gave a jump that nearly knocked down poor Orlando.
"Ah, I suppose you'll forget me now," says he, with a sigh; and seemed
the only unhappy person in company.

"Why, you conceive, Mr. Crump," says my wife, with a great deal of
dignity, "that, connected as we are, a young man born in a work——"

"Woman!" cried I (for once in my life determined to have my own way),
"hold your foolish tongue. Your absurd pride has been the ruin of us,
hitherto; and, from this day, I'll have no more of it. Hark ye, Orlando,
if you will take Jemimarann, you may have her; and if you'll take five
hundred pounds for a half share of the shop, they're yours; and _that's_
for you, Mrs. Coxe."

And here we are, back again. And I write this from the old back shop,
where we are all waiting to see the new year in. Orlando sits yonder,
plaiting a wig for my Lord Chief Justice, as happy as may be; and
Jemimarann and her mother have been as busy as you can imagine all day
long, and are just now giving the finishing touches to the bridal
dresses; for the wedding is to take place the day after to-morrow. I've
cut seventeen heads off (as I say) this very day; and as for Jemmy, I no
more mind her than I do the Emperor of China and all his Tambarins. Last
night we had a merry meeting of our friends and neighbours, to celebrate
our re-appearance among them; and very merry we all were. We begun with
quadrilles, but I never could do 'em well; and, after that, to please
Mr. Crump and his intended, we tried a gallopard, which I found anything
but easy: for since I am come back to a life of peace and comfort, it's
astonishing how stout I'm getting; so we turned at once to what Jemmy
and me excels in—a country dance; which is rather surprising, as we was
both brought up to a town life. As for young Tug, he showed off in a
sailor's hornpipe; which Mrs. Coxe says is very proper for him to learn,
now he is intended for the sea. But stop! here comes in the punchbowls;
and if we are not happy, who is? I say I am like the Swish people, for I
can't flourish out of my native _hair_.


                  EXTRACTS FROM THE ANNUAL REGISTER OF
                    REMARKABLE OCCURRENCES IN 1839.

JAN. 9.—Discovery of the real Vegetable Pills:—A patient hoaxed the
vendor, and, instead of taking them, sowed them in his garden. A fine
crop of peas was the result. The man had been selling those pleasant
vegetables, in boxes, disguised as pills by being covered with an outer
coating of flour; but, from having been always _in flower_, they were
now thoroughly _blown_!

In the north, a Coroner's inquest was held upon the body of a man who
died from taking another kind of Vegetable Pills. On opening the body
the interior was discovered to be one huge cabbage, of great dimensions,
but dead, to its heart's core, of confinement and want of water—a
beverage which the patient unfortunately never drank. The jury returned
a verdict of "_quits_." "Quits, gentlemen!" exclaimed the dismayed
Coroner—"never heard of such a thing! What do you mean?" "Why," replied
the foreman, with some warmth, "we find that if the cabbage killed the
man, the man most certainly killed the cabbage; and if that ain't quits,
blow me!"

JAN. 24.—Her Majesty went on to the stage of Drury Lane Theatre, to
inspect Van Amburgh and his beasts. The Queen was mistaken by many for
the _Lady of Lyons_.

[Illustration:

  _Cab-rearer._
]

FEB. 18.—Maroto did a bit of important slaughter, and murdered twelve
generals, upon the plea of the general welfare. Rather a contradictory
reason; but Don Carlos entered France in consequence. They say his
chiefs were bribed by a _palmer's stone_, and it is certain there was
some palming, any way. The only commander that now sticks to him is
Cabrera, and he's not unlikely to be upset.

MARCH 3.—Vestris attempted to be blown up. A _private box_ given her in
her own theatre—loaded with combustibles. Drawing cover—and discovery in
consequence.

              Some spiteful people envying Madame's fame,
              Dare to pronounce it an Olympic game!

MAY 21.—Procession of the Temperance Society.

               Tea-total army! how you march,
                   Tag-rag and bob-tail of Bohea:
               With sober legs, and visage starch,
                   Looking like men "_done to a Tea_."

               You're not so jolly o'er your fate,
                   As merry boys that drink and dance;
               You're cross—and show (I temper hate!)
                   Bad temper in your _temperance_.

               Besides, I think I let truth slip,
                   Oh! marching most demure, mobocrasy.
               And have you fairly "on the _hip_"
                   By hinting here at your _hypocrisy_!

               For on this mighty celebration,
                   When all abroad for show you roam,
               'Tis said, you'll scandalize your nation,
                   _And get blind drunk a-going home_!

MAY 23.—Queen Adelaide returned:—

              This good Queen comes with health restored
                  Of which before she was defaulter:
              Did she drink stout when on ship-board,
                  Or was she known to _malt_ at _Malta_?

JUNE 30.—The Sultan of Turkey died of _delirium tremens_; the Father of
the Faithful going drunk to the seventh heaven! His son—scion of the
same _die-nasty_—ascended the throne; but taught, by example, not to
_wine_, hid his grief and drowned his father's cellars in the Bosphorus.
Shortly after this his whole fleet _abstained from Port_—and absconded
to Mehemet Ali.

JULY 2.—Birmingham riots. A smart fire, but no "_Burns's_ Justice,"—
_down-fall_ of much _uphold_-stery. Beds in flames—among the
_mattresses_ great destruction of _tick_—credit vanishing. Sacrifice of
property not unlike _sacking_. Town in a storm.

JULY 21.—Rage for publishing portraits of the Queen—some in the _Lane_
and some in the line-manner: some done by _Doo_, and some engraved by
_Cousins_—not by Cousin George, or Cousin Albert,—not by a Prince man,
but a man of Prints. But _muzzy-tinto_ seems the favourite style.

AUG. 30.—The Cinque Ports gave a banquet to the Duke of Wellington,
where they did not _sink port_ at all; on the contrary, the feast was
carried on with much _wine_, and a great deal of _spirit_; and, although
the room was surrounded with _banners_, nothing was found to _flag_.
There were plenty of _rations_, and orations, and Lord Brougham's
Waterloo Eulogy was a eulogy of the first water.

SEPT. 7.—The Secretary of War dated a letter from Windsor Castle,
mistaking it for his _Home Office_. As it was, it was only a blunder,
but he might as well have kissed Her Majesty by mistake, and then it
would have been a blunder-buss.

SEPT. 12.—Poulett Thomson went to Canada, in the _Pique_ frigate; and
many people were much _piqued_ at the circumstance. The ejaculation of
"_Shiver my timbers!_" became prevalent, at the same time, with the
great wood-dealers of British America.

SEPT. 22.—Pump locked up at Ramsgate, during divine service.

                Lock up the pump! no! no! we see
                  At once the whole report is scandal:
                What dullards in that town must be
                  Who'd stop the music of a _Handel_

SEPT. 28.—The Lord Mayor's chaplain preached his annual sermon before
the Corporation; and took for his text, "A citizen of no _mean_ city."
The Corporation, however, got offended at the discourse, which induced
them to withhold the usual fifty-pound donation. The sermon contained
such a _dressing_ that they considered themselves _overdone_; and,
refusing to be _rated_ after that fashion, took their own notes, but
withheld the fifty. The reverend gentleman is now of opinion that they
are citizens of _a very mean city indeed_; and, if he has not a text, he
has, at least, a _pre_text for saying so.

[Illustration:

  A Man of Letters.
]

NOV. 8.—Post-office arrangements proposed. Treasury issues one minute,
which it takes twenty to read. Postage, not uniform, but promoted to a
groat, to promote the circulation of fourpenny-pieces. The Chancellor of
the Exchequer, having looked at the question in its every _Baring_—
declines throwing the letters more open—to distribution. Nevertheless,
correspondence will be so much increased, that this may be called a
_post age_—and Lord Lichfield, A MAN OF LETTERS.


               ASSOCIATION OF BRITISH ILLUMINATI, HELD AT
                      BIRMINGHAM, IN AUGUST, 1839.

  [We have been requested to insert the following selections from the
  proceedings of the Institution, in consequence of the unhandsome
  conduct of some of the newspapers, in refusing to publish any
  further reports unless they were paid for as advertisements.]

A great feature, in the meeting this year, has been the elegant and
intelligible simplicity of the subjects and papers discussed; the
following are a few of the most interesting:—

Mr. Bewdlite's paper "On the retrograde Progression of vegetable
Ærolites, supposed to be caused by the flowing Stagnation of diurnal
Currents, coming in Contact with a Board of Guardians," was much
admired; as well as Dr. Terncow's admirable paper "On the Tendency of
extreme Nervous Filaments to form Photogenic Conventions," and "The
Advantages derived from forcing condensed Air into the Brain, to sharpen
the Powers of Hearing," by which means a whisper at Dover could be
distinctly heard at Boulogne.

Under the head of Section W, an interesting report was read by Dr.
Buckleband, on some important geological and antiquarian discoveries,
which were made, in the neighbourhood of Holborn, by the workmen
employed in a lying down gas-pipes. It appeared that, at the depth of
six feet below the mud formation, having passed through a _stratum_ of
London dirt, teeming with interesting _reliquiæ_ of blacking-bottles and
tobacco-pipes, in a fine state of petrifaction, together with traces of
decayed vegetable matter, interspersed with bones of feline _mammalia_,
they struck upon a mass of regular brickwork, which was, at first,
supposed to be the remains of the Roman road which formerly ran from
King's Cross to Evans's Hotel, in Covent Garden. On carefully removing
the masonry, they arrived at a curiously constructed apartment, or
_cella_, containing several dozen bottles, of modern form, reclining in
sawdust round the walls. The wine in the bottles was found to be
perfectly unimpaired by its long repose, and tasted fresh and sweet. One
gentleman pronounced it to be the Massican wine so lauded by Pliny.
Another, who had hitherto pretended to be a judge of old wine, stated
that it was merely a compound of inferior port (fine rough flavour,
30_s._) and red currant, with a small admixture of English brandy. The
learned professor merely mentioned this absurd opinion as a matter of
entertainment. One of the most singular features of this gratifying
discovery, was one of the everlasting lamps, of which curious light a
small jet was burning over the bins, with a flame exactly resembling
gas. He expected a further report of their proceedings by the seven
o'clock train. While the learned gentleman was speaking, the
communication arrived. Much excitement prevailed as he read the paper;
and one of the audience, in his nervous agitation, took another's
snuff-box by mistake. It appeared that the workmen had descended, in
company with several contributors to the "Gentleman's Magazine," and,
following a long passage, similarly adorned with bottles, began to
contemplate the idea of bringing to light an entire subterranean Roman
city; probably destroyed by one of the early volcanic eruptions of the
_Mons Primula_, or Primrose Hill, of the ancients. On ascending a flight
of steps they came to a small door, which they eagerly forced open, and
the astonished group found themselves in the "bottling department" of
what had been apparently an early Roman "wine vaults."

Mr. Lyme Stone produced a fine fossil specimen of the claw of some
extinct animal, which had been discovered by the excavators of the
Southampton Railroad. He had shown it to the learned professor, who had
drawn the entire animal from this single specimen; and, on comparing it
with the Munkorsensauros, it was found to be correct, with the exception
of the tail being curly instead of straight. Mr. Planecence inquired if
it was not likely to be the claw of an eagle, in composition similar to
those displayed in the New Road, where the two gentlemen, without any
clothes, are represented as playing at single-stick. He was strengthened
in this idea by observing an iron pin running through the claw, probably
to fix it to the pedestal. Mr. Lyme Stone was sorry that the honourable
and learned gentleman was such a confounded fool. The pin with which it
was transfixed was evidently a weapon of chase, proving the existence of
man upon the earth to be coeval with his desire for food.

An angry discussion would doubtless have taken place had not the hour
sounded for dinner. The company speedily separated, and proved the
superiority of the attraction that ducks and salmon possessed over
inorganic incomprehensibles.


                BLARNEYHUM ASS-TROLOGICUM PRO ANNO 1840.

[Illustration]

 COURTEOUS READER,

Hold thy breath lightly, while I outpour to thee, in gentle diction, my
prediction of events. Behold the Hieroglyphic Interpreter of the symbols
of the present and the future; and what a _posse_ of things—both _in
posse_ and _in esse_—it closes and discloses under its mystic mantle.
Imagine thyself, for a moment, like the topmost sails of some goodly
vessel,—the moon-raker—the star-gazer—the sky-scraper of the
Firm-i-meant; and peruse what my prophecy doth, by a ruse, foretel. See
the signs of my designs. Now, high in the mid-heaven, behold _Albertus
Sagittarius_ as the Cupid Archer, driving his love-dart through the
window of that constellatory hotel, known in great and little Britain by
the sign of the _Virgo_ and _Crown_. Behold the _Miss_ is _hit_. This is
portentous of hymen; but other high men, lo! are typified in those
dejected falling stars, pursuing their downward decadence from the
court-yard of the palatial Inn. Now, then, shall marriage spread wide
its pinions among people of all opinions, and the cord of con-cord shall
be tied. See that gorgeous hecatomb of _hearts_, which the young _trump,
Love_, fires and inspires with fame and flame. He, behold, is the
rightful Duke of _Victoria; husbanding_ his resources, and yet setting
the tide of conquest through the world. Baby linen becomes shortly at a
premium, and my art foresees a prevalence of _Sun_ and _Air_!

_Whirled_ into fire, see the political _world_, and _ire_ burst from the
soil of _Ire_-land. In fancy, I behold the flames, now in _in_-fancy,
mount and swell. Jack _Frost_ sits melancholy mad, and burns his fingers
by the blaze he essays to raise; but there are other _Jacks_ that want
_roasting_, which the courteous Reader will _smoke_. The _broils_ are
not over; and, though the fierceness of the fire of politics will not
evaporate the Thames, yet, from Westminster to the Tower, it shall send
forth a _hissing noise_.

But sit thou lightly on thy throne, Victoria! for the tumult shall be
_tumultum in parvo_; and thy people, convinced that it was _infra dig._
to abandon the _spade_ for the pike, and assume the habits of the
_rake_, will leave the fields of speculation for those of agriculture;
and their sons and daughters, emulating thy good example, will betake
them to arts of _husband_ry, cast away their _divisions_ for
_multiplication_, and thus enjoy the Irish _sunshine_ of a genial
_reign_.

                                                        RIGDUM FUNNIDOS.

[Illustration]



                                  THE
                             COMIC ALMANACK
                               FOR 1841.


[Illustration]


                     COMMONS, BUT NOT SHORT COMMONS

[Illustration:

  The bar of the House.
]

[Illustration:

  A sergeant at arms.
]

[Illustration:

  Milton on Stilton.
]


                           MARTYRS IN PRISON.

       Sheriffs in custody!—in very quod!
           Deep, but still jolly, in their dreadful sin;
       Both reg'lar rum 'uns,
           Each a noble feller,
       And living just as if the House of Commons
           Had got a splendid cellar,
       And shoved 'em in the Duff and Gordon bin!
           How very odd!
       A sheriff's officer's the soul of _trap_,
       Like pot-house people, always at the _tap_,
                 Though not a _bar_-gent.
       Thanks that no sheriff here was sent to prison
       By any _officer_ of his'n
           Tapp'd in the time of "tarms:"
           But simply handed over to a _sergeant_
                 At arms!
       These are no poets robb'd of attic bliss,
       For when did Grub-street feed on grub like this?
           Ham, chicken, veal, or tongue
           For supper, 'stead of the "Night Thoughts" of Young;
                 Stilton,
                 Instead of Milton,
       Champagne most sparkling, _eau de vie_ most fiery,
       And baskets full of cards of fond inquiry!

       J orums of punch, the bowl a very fixture,
       A nd made, like snuff, a sort of Prince's mixture;
       N o end of wine, and, ergo, no repining,
       U seful distinction betwixt wine and whining;
       A prison-palace—comfortable, airy,
       R ather a safe than dungeon, though terms vary;
       Y our sheriffs keep good terms with JANUARY.

6. Twelfth Day.

                 That biggest cake, so prime and nice,
                   What's its price?
                 Guineas two!—well, there I'm done!
                 What's the other?—guinea one!
                 Humph! that little 'un—you can buy
                 For half-a-guinea:—O my eye!
                 If you please, a penny bun!

[Illustration:

  JANUARY—Twelfth Night—drawing Characters.
]


                             TWELFTH NIGHT.

                         (_Not_ SHAKSPEARE'S.)

          Miss Miffins was a blooming nymph,
              Of almost half a cent'ry,
          Who long had grieved her book of life
              To keep by single entry.

          She'd once a quiver-full of beaus;
              Old, young, short, tall, dark, light:
          Stokes, Nokes, Tibbs, Nibbs, Hill, Till, Fox, Knox
              But never Mister Right.

          In fact, she was a _leetle_ proud,
              And loved to play and park it;
          And so, like many another _fair_,
              She'd overstood her _market_.

          The Baker woo'd her once, and oft
              At eve love's tale would tell her;
          But all she said to him was this,
              "Begone you kneady feller!"

          The Pieman, too, had tried his luck:
              But there again her pride
          Stood in her way: she couldn't bear
              To be a Tarter's bride.

          The man "wot drives the pleasure wan"
              Had loved her to insanity;
          But, as she said, "What's pleasure? Stuff!
              And wans is nought but wanity!"

          The Miller next, in honey'd words,
              That love so promptly teaches,
          Assail'd her heart. But "Come," said she,
              "None of your _flowry_ speeches!"

          The Clothesman, too, although a Jew,
              Desired to be her beau;
          But finding _Phillis_ look so cold,
              Return'd to his old "Clo'."

          The Pawnbroker had also shown
              A flatt'ring predilection:
          But "No," said she, "don't look to me
              For Pledges of affection."

          Thus all the men she jilted then,
              And one reply they got:
          "She'd rather live without a tie"—
              But now—she'd rather knot.

          So one twelfth-day—that is, one sixth—
              She went the cakes to view:
          Like all the world, who feel, that day,
              A cake-oëthes too.

          Of course the boys soon pinn'd her fast,
              (No greater plagues on earth!)
          And her poor gown became the vic-
              Tim of their boy-strous mirth.

          A cracker, too, by sad mischance,
              And while with fear she panted,
          At one fell bounce, soon fired her flounce—
              Though not the spark she wanted.

          A hero bold who stood close by,
              Quick to her rescue flew,
          And tore away the flaming robe:—
              Her pocket vanish'd too.

          She went into a fit—so strong,
              That two young Tailors swore
          They'd never seen in all their lives
              So tight a fit before.

          The swain into whose arms she'd fall'n,
              When to herself she'd come,
          Seeing that she was "all abroad,"
              Begg'd he might see her home.

          Arrived, they talk'd of this and that,
              Love, war, and heroes dead.
          A soldier he—a man of rank
              (And file, he might have said)—

          A Polish Count, a Knight Grand Cross,
              K. X., and Q. E. D.;
          Grand Master of the Blood-red Dirk,
              And R. O. G. U. E.

          In fine, to make a long tale short,
              He tickled her ambition;
          And soon at Church persuaded her
              To _altar_ her condition.

          Then off she wrote to all her friends—
              Aunt Smith and Cousin Cole;
          To tell them all the news, how she
              Was tied to a great Pole.

          But, oh! pride, pride must have a fall;
              Her cash he soon got through:
          And then, one mizzling Mich'lmas day,
              The Count he mizzled too.

          And ever since, on fair Twelfth Night,
              A wand'ring form is seen:
          A female form, and this its cry:—
              "Vy vot a Cake I've been!"

[Illustration:

  Curiosities of Ornithology.
]

[Illustration]


                           A MARRY-TIME VIEW.

10. Queen Victoria's marriage.

[Illustration:

  A wedding ring.
]

[Illustration:

  General Jam.
]

[Illustration:

  A Watchman in Seven Dials.
]

         To gaze upon the wide expanse of ocean,
           Far as horizon, I confess, sublime;
         To feast our eyes on nuptial groups in motion,
           Is, notwithstanding, just as _marry time_.

         A Royal wedding host and pouring rain,
           Both rushing on to-gether, and to boot,
         By the park railway, carriages in train,
           With shoals of footmen and of men on foot.

         A gathering of the people, all from home,
           The _reigning_ Queen and _raining_ sky to view;
         In Italy the millions rush to _Rome_,
           Are they not free to _roam_ in London too?

         Throngs of the curious—curiously met,
           An inconsistent batch of low and high;
         Drunkards, for instance, getting drench'd with _wet_,
           And still declaring they were very _dry_!

         Women with _pattens_ found to _clog_ the way,
           Young thieves aspiring to the golden fleece,
         'Mid torrents fair, that soaked, with equal play,
           A new policeman, or a new pelisse.

         Tea-totallers, with spirits under proof,
           And lots of water for them overhead,
         There was, because men would not stand aloof,
           A general _jam_, but one that wouldn't _spread_!

         Matters grew pressing, and, without regard
           To toes or ribs, a bonnet or a belly,
         The _jam_ I speak of soon became so hard,
           It nearly jammed some people to a _jelly_!

         Yet at that Royal wedding, people say,
           The pickpockets their trade did sadly botch;
         For one industrious youth came all the way
           From _Seven Dials_ to steal a _single watch_!

[Illustration:

  The new Belle and Crown.
]

12. 11th Hussars, called Prince Albert's own.

           God save the Queen!—we love her, and the sign is—
             Millions of warm huzzas still greet her throne;
           One thousand prime hussars she gives his Highness
             But she is more than them—Prince Albert's own.


                            SAINT VALENTINE.

                             _Des Oiseaux._

              Sweet Valentine, thy praise is heard
                  In ev'ry grove so green, oh!
              And thousand birds press on to join
                  The _Concert Valentino_.

              There's not an oak, or ash, or elm,
                  But some fond couple bears;
              The very apple-tree itself
                  Is cover'd o'er with pairs.

              And though the groves are bare of leaf,
                  As far as eyes can reach;
              And not a bough one bud can boast,
                  They've lots of flow'rs—of speech.

              There's young Jack Daw, and young Mac Caw,
                  And Phil O'Mel (though late),
              Each pressing on his am'rous suit,
                  With all his feather weight.

              The beaux so very pert are grown,
                  That, when their lady wills,
              Like oppositionist M.P.'s,
                  They wont withdraw their bills.

              There's Mister Ostrich 'mong the belles
                  Is quite a forward chap,
              Which, Ostrich-like, he seems to think
                  A feather in his cap.

              Miss Pelican declares her beau
                  Is got beyond endurance;
              And wonders at—she really does—
                  His Pelican Assurance.

              Miss Pigeon's trying to look shy,
                  _He's_ calling her "crosspatch!"
              But, though a Pouter now she seems,
                  'Twill be a Pigeon match.

              The Peacock leads his belle along,
                  And presses her to wed;
              And now he gives his lips a feast,
                  Then gives his tail a spread.

              Each fowl has got some pretty gift
                  Beneath his am'rous wing:
              Some offer wreaths of orange flow'r;
                  The Dove has brought his ring.

              There's not a birdie, young or old,
                  But feels that love has caught her:
              The Eagle wants a little _sun_,
                  The Daw a little Daw-ter.

              It's no use feigning this and that,
                  For little Love, ifegs!
              Is firm, and makes each lady bird
                  Confess that "eggs _is_ eggs."

              List to the loves of Lisson-grove,
                  From robin, lark, and linnet;
              While _busses_ from the _Nightingale_
                  Are passing ev'ry minute.

              The very _bosom_ of the deep
                  Seems under love's soft sway;
              And flocks of water-fowl are seen
                  Indulging their fowl play.

              There's rev'rend Rook, and Daw, his clerk,
                  Sitting with well-stuff'd craws,
              Read to lend a helping hand
                  To forward the good _caws_.

              Each bird a poet now becomes,
                  And sings some sad refrain:
              The Yellow-hammer ev'n has got
                  His yellow-ham'rous strain.

              Some try to shine in repartee,
                  Who can't be smart in ditty;
              The very Peewit on the heath
                  Turns all at once peewit-y.

              I know not if the birds have part
                  In our new marriage laws;
              But if they've not, it's clear they ought
                  To have their special _claws_.

              In faithfulness they beat us far;
                  For, spite of all their freaks,
              You never see the feather'd tribe
                  Going before their _beaks_.

              So fare-you-well, fair ladies all;
                  I hope, before next spring,
              Throughout the land you'll set the bells
                  All of a wedding ring.

                              MARCH.                              [1841.

[Illustration:

  Alderman Armour.
]


                             HAT-ON GARDEN.

Vell, I'd give a farden to know vy they calls this here Hatton Garden.
I'm sartain sure it must be done in jest; for if every hat aint hoff
instead of hon, I'm blest! Hat on, indeed! vell, sartinly it's vindy;
and here's a pretty shindy. They've rose the flat'lent element at last,
and here it's peppering on, a precious blast! It's nuffin but a reglar
blast of ruin, undoin' every von vith vot it's doin. Vell, blacksmiths
must be most unconscionable fellows, if, such a day as this, they vants
a bellows. I can't even svear; my pals u'd hardly know me: I don't feel
no occasion to say "blow me." Oh! oh! here's a go! The voman's blowing
over; she's a reglar charmer, but so unkimmon fat it can't much harm
her. Vont there be chimbley accidents:—ay! lots. Look, look at Harmer
and Flower's flower-pots; they're a fallin' on that old gentleman's head
as valks below; and vot's vurse, it's too vindy for him to return the
"blow." [They say as Alderman Harmer has left the town off, and he's
made a breeze in the city vith the vind as he vhisk'd his gown off.]
Vell, I'm hoff, so here goes; my eyes, how it blows! That ere image-boy
can't hold his tray; ain't his kings and queens, and dukes, a rattlin
avay. There goes a couple slick; the vind's broke Vellington and little
Vic. Go it, my hearty! that's it, you've shivered Bonyparty; and,
notwithstanding the furious vay in vich it blows and rains, if he ain't
a stopping to pick up Napoleon's remains! Vell, I've heard of "mad as a
March air," and precious mad I find it is, still I can't say as I care:
as long as I get home safe, and there's nobody killed, I sees no great
harm _in_ it; only I hopes that them as vere particularly anxious to
raise the vind, is vell satisfied this very minit!

      16. Gibbon died, 1794. "De _gusti_bus non est disputandum."
                                 High winds, and no mistake.

"Will you not take another cup?" said the mistress of the tea-party.
"No," answered the awkward gentleman, who had prematurely risen to
depart; but, upon the word, his foot slipped over the hearth-rug, and he
fell. "In refusing that cup of tea, and tumbling so soon after, you
remind me of 'Gibbon's Roman Empire,'" said the wag of the tea-party.
"Why?" "Because you are a living illustration of the _decline and
fall_."

[Illustration:

  MARCH—Theatrical fun-dinner
]


                         THEATRICAL FUN DINNER.

      The Bard of Avon summon'd his ghosts
      Around his own bright shade, in hosts,
        And the characters came to the Poet of Fame,
          To hear his mighty say.
      "Well, now," he cried, "bright spirits all,
      Hither to-day you have my call,
      To quit the volume in which you are bound,
      And make, together, a holiday round,
          And go in a group to the play."
      So the principal characters, giving a look
      Of delight, jumped out of the Shakspeare book;
        Daylight was on the wane.
          Out they skipped, ready equipped,
        And started for Drury Lane.
      In full-ness of his _fat_ led Falstaff, spruce and clean,
      (No false staff wanted he whereon to _lean_)—
                      The van.
      Othello, black, beneath his dazzling vest,
      Polished with Warren's best,
          Look'd just the man
      For women fair to love him,
      You felt you couldn't take the _shine_ out of him!
  Romeo escorted Juliet—pretty lisper, _she_ fed on Romeo's whisper.
          Hamlet, the fencing dueller,
    (The only modern Hamlet we can boast,
          Was born a jeweller;
      Just as each uncle that our poets sing
      Reigns now a pawnbroker, and not a king);
      Hamlet, I say, took up his princely post,
      Between his uncle and his father's ghost.
        Shylock, the Jew that Shakspeare drew,
      Had nobody to _draw_ him now—so _walked_;
        Macduff, Macbeth, Iago, and the rest,
        Marched all abreast.
      The witch alone, dress'd in her riding-hood,
      Travelled upon her broomstick, as she should.
        Grov'ling below her, in the rear,
          Crawled Cali_ban_,
            While Clown
      Turned somersets eternal up and down,
        That he was born, to make it plain appear,
          A Somerset man!
      On, a few paces, jolly Bardolph goes,
      To light the party with his flaming nose.
          Now they gain Drury Lane:
      There, of course, they need do no more
      Than present themselves at the free-list door;
      Over the book Jack Falstaff bends,
      To write the name of "Shakspeare and Friends."
        When, lo! with sighs, and tears in his eyes,
        And to everybody's immense surprise,
              Mr. Parker cries,
  With a look of most discomfiting woe,
  "I'm exceedingly sorry to tell you so,
  But 'Shakspeare and friends' are now no go;
    No go, I say, but to go away.
  They are struck entirely off the list;
  For the whole concern has taken a twist.
  It's the Chamberlain's pleasure, I vow, with pain,
  And Shakspeare's diddled at Drury Lane!"
  By Falstaff's flabbergastered frown,
  You see he now is thoroughly down,
  Where he stood before like a swell so nobby,
  He's ready to burst with passion and thirst,
  And he'd get up a row, and bully 'em now,
  But he sees the new police in the lobby.
    So, to hide what he feels, he turns on his heels,
  And to all his retinue making a sign,
  Shouts, "Boys, follow me on the road to dine!
  As we are not free at this house of base uns,
  We'll march at once to our own Freemason's;
      The _Cuff_ that will greet us there, we know,
      Is better than this last knock-down blow;
  And there—of us every mother's son—
      Shakspeare saint, or Shakspeare sinner,
  As bonny before we've often done,
    On the fat of the land, will feast at a grand
              Theatrical Fun
                        _Dinner_!"
  The tavern is open, they've gathered 'em there,
  Fat old Falstaff has taken the chair;
  He's eating away like an old gormandizer,
  Who's been into College and come out a _sizer_.
  And Bartley perceives, now he's taken enough in,
  That Falstaff himself cannot play without _stuffing_.
  Close behind his benevolent face,
    And belly and back, as he's taking his whack,
  Good Master Clown is making grimace,
  And acting toastmaster-in-chief of the place.
  Falstaff glows, from his top to his toes,
  His great big body keeps warming his clothes,
  As he puffs and blows, while his glass overflows,
  He is lighting his clay pipe at Bardolph's nose
  Drury Lane has dismissed him, alack!
  But Falstaff's accustomed to _getting the sack_!
  There he sits like a friar or monk,
  Till the guests around grow uncommonly drunk;
  The witch of the party, with gin they cram her,
  In their eager strife for the good of the _dram her_;
  But Shakspeare's voice, from bottle and stoup,
    Warned all the spirits to go their ways,
  And Cruikshank had hardly finished his group,
    Ere they'd all got home to their several plays!

[Illustration:

  APRIL—"I know a bank" Shaks: (A consol-atory refletion)
]

[Illustration]

[Sidenote: Dandies ask, How will the weather go?]

[Illustration:

  A heavy swell.
]

[Sidenote: Rainbows for
           fine beaux,
           whether or no!]


                         FISHER'S LAKE SCENERY.

            Among sweet April showers there's no dangler
            So persevering as your fervent angler:
            Left, by less fond companions, in the lurch,
            Upon his lonely boat he'll take his _perch_,
            And fish for ever there by _line_ and rule,
            His poets must be all of the _Lake_ school,
            The only prose writers he'd ever brook,
            In social brotherhood, are _Pool_ and _Hook_;
            Beat him on land, he thinks the insult odd,
            Beat him by water, and he'll kiss _the rod_;
            Has he a secret you would know past doubt,
            Your only chance with him's to _worm_ it out:
            Take him abroad to ride, he'd rather die
            Than have a coach, if he could get a _fly_:
            He'd like to sit for life upon a raft,
            In perpetuity of gentle _craft_!
            What if a little hostel, by the stream,
            Offer "fish, gratis!" what is that to him?
            He'd rather sit, when clouds have hid the sun,
            Between the rain and river, catching none.
            What are the jolly inmates all about?
            Drinking warm brandy, genial ale, or stout:—
            And he? Oh! he is _taking cold without_!

12. Easter Monday.

          "Mayn't _I_ go to the _fair_, ma'am?" Bet inquires;
            "Suppose all sorts of evils there beset you:"
          "Missis, I aint that sort of girl, you know,
            Harmless fair fun is all as I desires:"
          "Well, if the weather's fair enough to go,
            I think it will be only fair to let you:"
          So fair, fair girl, fair day, and fair permission,
          With the fare to the fair crown Bet's condition!

[Illustration:

  Poet's corner.
]

23. Death of Shakspeare, 1616.

           "Sweet Bard of Avon!"—"Well," says Jack, "how you
             Can call him Bard of A-won, goodness knows!
           I'm sure as I don't: stop! I think I do;
             He stands A 1, at Poet's Lloyd's, I s'pose!"


                            POETIC LICENCE.

           I say, lend me a crown!
           I've only three shillings in my pocket:
           Well, hand them over, and then you'll owe me two!


                       DIVIDEND DAY AT THE BANK.

         What a crowd! what a crush!
         What a row! what a rush!
     What screaming, and tearing, and noise,—
 Of cabmen and footmen, policemen and bus-men,
     And poor little run-over boys!
 From Lombard-street, Prince's-street, Broad-street,
    King-William-street,
     On they come driving full spank:
         Old and young, great and small,
         Fair and brown, short and tall;
     For it's Dividend Day at the Bank.

         Oh! it's Dividend Day!
         Oh! it's Dividend Day!
     And all sorts of queer incongruities:
 Old men and young maids, deaf ears and bright eyes,
     Are coming to claim their annuities.
         All questions now cease—
         Is it war? is it peace?
     Who cares! Or for news of the Frank!
         For Fleet or Conscription,
         Turk, Russ, or Egyptian?—
     It's Dividend Day at the Bank.

         "Dear uncle," says Miss,
         With a smile and a kiss,
     "How rosy you're looking to-day!
         Stay! stop! stand you still!
         There's a fly on your frill!
     Psh! there, now I've brush'd it away.
 And here, look, dear nunks, is a beautiful purse:
     There, take it—no words—hush—don't thank!"
         And another great buss
         Accomp'nies the "puss"—
     (☞It's Dividend Day at the Bank.)

         The merchant on 'Change
         Thinks it looks _rayther_ strange
     That his wife should come out all that way—
         From Kennington-common—
         Such a very fat woman!
     And such an "uncommon hot day!"
         To meet her "dear duck,"

     Her "love" and her "chuck:"
 And then she's so hearty and frank,
     Prates and chirps like a bird,—
     But, of course, not a word
 About Dividend Day at the Bank.

     The Minister now,
     With pre-occupied brow,
 On some "secret service" is gone;
     While loyal committee,
       From borough or city
 Is left in its glory alone.
     "Yet he promised to be
     Here exactly at three—
 Only think! and a man of his rank;
     And possessing such zeal
     For the national weal!"—
 But it's Dividend Day at the Bank.

     Now summer suns glow,
     And summer buds blow,
 And summer birds gladden each hour;
     While soft strains of love
     Are heard from above,
 And Beauty sits lone in her bow'r:
     Sits lone in her bow'r,
     And droops like the flow'r
 That of rain or of dew hath not drank
     To her lover she cries;
     But no lover replies!—
 It's Dividend Day at the Bank.

     Oh! the poet may sing
     Of the beauties of Spring,
 In a hymn to the sweet first of May;
     The hero attune,
     To the eighteenth of June,
 His glorious, uproarious lay;
     To Saint Valentine's morn
     Let lovers forlorn
 Write verses, in rhyme or in blank;
     I'll carol my lays
     To the glory and praise
 Of Dividend Day at the Bank.

[Illustration:

  I wish

  you may

  get it.

  Polish Fate.
]


                        MAY GAMES.—HOGG'S-WAKE.

        The village is out, the village is out,
        Peasant and clodhopper, fool and flout;
        Fast in the collars the grinners are seen,
        And the squeaking grunter is loose on the green:
        Halloo him, follow him, frighten him on!
        Whip him and skip him, fast bid him be gone!
        'Bout him, and knout him, and give him the flail,
        And put plenty of soap on his curly tail!
              Thus, in the midst of a beautiful run,
              My _tale_ is begun, my _tale_ is begun!
        Like a man after lodgings, who's got a first _floor_,
        You're down on your belly, you country boor;
        And his tail has given your fingers more
        Soap than they've seen for a year before;
        Good little tail, sleek, greasy, and lean,
        Trying the villagers' hands to clean;
        And see how they flounder, and see how they fail,
        In seeking to hold by the slippery tail!
              Thus, while pig and tail the villagers diddle,
              My tale's in the middle, my tale's in the middle!
        'Mid laughter, 'mid laughter, ran after! run after!
          The tail of the grunter taunts great and small!
        Catch it you can't, for it bobs aslant,
          Like an eel that's beating the heels of you all!
        That pig so sleek, it'll hold for a week
          Its present connexion 'twixt Grisi and squall;
        Till fairly worn out with its slipping about,
          When you catch it, it wont have a _tail_ at all:
              So here, at the tail of the sport, my friend,
              My tale and the pig's tail are both at an end!

[Illustration:

  Cotter's Saturday Night.
]

27. Order of the Bath. 1725. Water witch.

                        (Family Tale of a Tub.)

31. Wit Monday.

[Illustration:

  Admiral De Witt.
]

        Pray, who is the fellow of infinite fun,
        Of whom men declare that his _wit_, like the _sun_,
        Shines and sparkles along—that its bright sallies glide
        Like a fresh summer river at flow of its _tide_?—
        Why, join wit, sun, and tide, and it's perfectly clear
        You mean jolly young _Whitsuntide_—Prince of the year!

[Illustration:

  MAY—Settling for the Derby—Long odds and long faces.
]


                     SETTLING DAY AT "THE CORNER."

                    "As I was going to (the) Derby,
                    All on, &c."—OLD SONG.

                     I wish I'd never bet;
         I wish I'd never seen a horse or colt;
         I wish I'd never join'd that jockeying set
                     I wish I'd stopped away
                 From Epsom on the Derby Day—
                         And all such places!
                     I wish I'd kept at home,
                 And never shown my person at a
                               Hippodrome.
         I wish, instead of going like a dolt
                         To those horse races,
                     I'd gone to Cowes Regatta!

                 We've all our ups and downs, I know,
                         Both great and small;
                               But, oh!
                 Those Epsom Downs are worst of all.

         What could have made me join those gambling jockeys?
                         (Out-of-door Crockies:)
         How could I reckon so without my host?
               How could I, cockney born and bred,
                       So run my head
                 Against that betting post?
                 Brought up in staid pursuits
         (Not among nasty animals and brutes),
         How could I think, to such a blust'ring clan,
                 My reason and my cash to yield?
                     I never was a martial man;
                 How could I "take the field?"

               Why did I, stupid dolt,
         Back that confounded, desperate Solace colt,
           Or of that mulish Muley make a pet?
         No doubt, large sums I thought of soon amassin';
           But what a double ass I was to bet
                     On that Ass-ass-in!

         The bounds of prudence how hard to regain!
                   When once a man o'ersteps 'em!
         But I have done: Richard's himself again!
                             Yes, be assured,
                         I'm now completely cured;
         At least, this _shall_ be my last dose of Epsom.

         It was an awful moment—that run-in—
         (Especially for those young minors short of tin!)
         I own I felt my heart sink then,
         And all my thoughts seemed driven into a "Corner:"
         And then I thought of North America, and Canton,
                     And then I turned a scorner
                               Of men,
                     And thought of Joseph Manton.
         And then the race-course whirled before my eyes;
         And then I heard a voice, in words of thunder,
                               Say,
                               "Heyday,
         Good sir! you seem to have some great surprise."
                   "Yes, and it's Little Wonder!"

                           However, now
                             That's past,
                     And I have made a vow
                     That bet shall be my last.
         All wagers now I nauseate and detest
                         ("Odds" and the rest);
                         All jockeys hate,
                       (Welter and feather weight);
                         All meetings fly
                       (October and July);
                     In short, I think all racing sad,
                       And all its courses bad.
         And as for the stupidity of those who go,
                     The difference, I trow
                         (If there's a tittle),
         'Twixt Donkey-ster and Ass-cot's mighty little.

         I've burnt my "books;" no horse again I'll back
                         (Racer or hack):
         No more I'll hedge: and by the Grecian gods,
                     I'll not stand on the long odds.
         With tens, and fives, and fours, and threes to one
         I've done. I've done with saying "Done, done, done!"
         My means no more I'll stake upon a Derby Day:
                               It's my last lay.

                     From this day forth for evermore,
         Though I should live to four—or forty score,
                     I'll never lay another shilling—
                           If I do I'm a villain—
                     (Be this the moral of my tale),
         Though you should make me the most tempting offer—
                     Golconda to an empty coffer—
         A thousand sterling to a pint of ale—
                         You shan't prevail.
                       No matter what the sum
                             I wont.
                *       *       *       *       *
                             Come,
                     I'll bet you half-a-crown I don't!

[Illustration:

  JUNE—The unlicensed Victuallers Dinner.
]

 1841.]                              JUNE.

[Illustration]


                            THE OXFORD ARMS.

 DEER SUZAN,

I set up all Knigt to set down to rite u a bout a horrit deed that has
put all the grate Law yers to work, and has been a drawin Thiers from
the Nayshuns hies. It is a shock King crime, no less than a shoot in at
the Queen. The assassin-hating will-in was quite in low life—nort but a
pot-boy! (not as that is any dis-a-peerage-ment; for I here there is
Potts a arch deecon, and Fill pots a Bishup;) but he did not ware his
best to go before her Mad-jest-i, but own lie his work-a-day close,
which I think was tatterd and torne, for I hurd mast her say he went
there with ragged Side intenshuns. One thing is de-litefull to no, that
the Queen got off as well as the pistoll, witch the will-in tuk. From
the way he prescented the weppon, it is thort he is one of the leveling
classes, though it is won-durd what his aim could be. Sum say he wos
like Sir Wall-ter scots True Bar door,

                  "Burn-in with luv—to fire for fame;"

which I cant see, as that true bar door came "beneath his lades windo;"
but this pot-boy went into the O pen park, and turn'd the Queen quite
pail, a shoot in thru the pail-ings! The Public in dig Nashun nose no
bounds: the Public Houses of the People, with their benches and their
bar, are to Congrat tulerate the Queen on her he scape from the pot-boy.
He was a errand will-in; and as he was tuk in one Park, i understand he
is to be tried by another, wot is as good a Judge as he. His name is
oxford, and a hug lie feller he is, tho no feller, I am tolld, of the
Oxford wot has a call edge on the banks of the Ices, which is a river,
you No, and, I spoze, is all ways froze. They say the grand jury cant
help find in a true Bill aginst him, which reminds me of my own true
Bill, who lives with farm her Constant. Give my luv to him, and all so
kep it for yourself; and so for the present good buy. Yours till deth,

                                                             CARRY LINE.

[Illustration:

  A Bacon Frier.
]

11. Bacon died. 1294.

                        _A_ con about _Ba_-con.

       "Why is a good cook like a Student of Philosophy?"
       Because she has long been accustomed to _fry her bacon_.

  Bacon's a bygone, for him I don't care,
    More than girls care for school when they're out of their teens;
  Don't call him a bygone—of _Bacon_ I swear,
    It's more proper to class him among the _has-beans_.

19. Queen Victoria's Accession.

             As once our Queen _succeeded_ to the throne,
               Setting her people all to merry-makings;
             So may she not succeed to that alone,
               But eke succeed in all her undertakings!


                             AN UNDERTAKER.

Pray, sir, what has been your largest undertaking in life?

  Why, I once took ten shillings in the pound on a debt of ten thousand,
and that was the largest undertaking I ever had.


                   THE LICENSED VICTUALLERS' DINNER.

The dinner of the Licensed Victuallers is better to them than the wisdom
of Solomon, or the ore of lore: it is their feast of literature, for
they consider it in the light of a splendid annual—magnificently bound
in calf for society—with the _cloth_ edition especially reserved for
themselves. It is a pleasure to behold their spread, the chairman
soaring into Epicurean sublimity, like the _spread eagle_, or feasting
like the golden vulture upon quid _vult_. See, they have gathered in the
strength of their conviviality. Every one of them is a landlord, if not
a lord of the land; how they labour at their vocation of cram! Their
festive board has become a board of works; and they are all busy about
the pleasantest half of the trade of _carver_ and gilder. Every man,
like a tailor, is taking his full measure; their whole vision is given
to the pro-vision; and they are now, more than doctors and lawyers,
among the _feed_. Pollok's "Course of Time" is nothing to the course of
victuals now produced. All the creatures that figure on their
sign-boards have been brought up and dressed for the nonce. Rarities are
here, which it must have required a new edition of "Cook's Voyages" to
procure. The _Goose with_ the _Gridiron_, the Magpie _without_ the
_Stump_, the _Swan with two Necks_, and the throttle of some youthful
Boniface acting _Lad-lane_ for the luxury: a joint from the Pig in the
Pound; the Blue Boar done thoroughly brown; the meek Lamb sent saucey
from the Mint; the Dolphin, by off-slicing process, changing its size
and not its dyes; the "Cock" with exquisite stuffing, so that it
emulates a firm of city silversmiths, and becomes "Cock Savoury;" the
Hen and Chickens, quite a gentle brood, roasted for food; "the Salmon,"
accustomed to swim, now beginning in consequence to sink; and last, not
least, the Peacock assisting at the spread! Sure here is food for
reflection, and the _great body_ of Licensed Victuallers may rejoice in
the victuals thereof.

Dinner is now over. The "Queen" is disposed of; the "Royal Family" are
settled; the "Army and Navy" are dispatched. Although it is not an
ordinary, they have gone through the ordinary toasts: the business of
the evening is about to be commenced; the Chairman is on his mettle, and
on his legs. He is a wit and a wittler; a patriot on the side of the
public-houses and the public. Bodily, as well as oratorically, he is a
great speaker, and his eloquence is now let loose. He informs the
company before him of the great importance of the humane and
intoxicating society to which he belongs. He tells them that the
Licensed Victuallers are connected with all that is elevating (spirits
for instance), civilizing, and admirable, in town and country. They are
identified equally with the lush and the literature of the land; for he
is prepared to contend that whatever has been great in literature is
deducible from lush. Every author of eminence has been more or less
inspired from the tap, the bin, the cellar, or the bar. The Edinburgh
Castle has never been a Castle of Indolence; and taverns must be
regarded as the fountains of the mind. Vehement cries of "bravo!" and
"draw it mild!" here interrupt the speaker; but he declares he cannot
draw it any milder, and that it would be stale, flat, and unprofitable
if he did. He would prove his case. The poet who quaffs British brandy
is filled with patriotic spirit, and writes nobly for native land. The
wit confines himself to what is rum. The nautical novelist sticks to
port. Gin inspires the great delineators of human life. What, for
instance, but gin-twist could have brought Oliver Twist to light? He
would repeat—that lush and literature were indissolubly connected, and
that the press and the punch-bowl were one. Yes, the very press was
nothing but a great punch-bowl. Its thunder, devilism, and vituperation,
were the spirit; its bland praises were the sweets; its sarcastic truths
and stings were the blended bitter and acid; its pleasant news was the
aroma from the lemon-peel; its quarrels were the hot water; its sneers
were the cold: it sometimes created a terrible stir; but then punch was
nothing without that; and, finally, the newsmen were the glasses, and
when all was done, the editors were the ladles—he said ladles
emphatically, lest they should be taken for _spoons_—that doled it out
to the eager-swallowing community. (Loud cries of "capital," and
incessant cheering.) All these things incontestably proved that the
kings of the lush were the kings of the literature of the land; and,
therefore, the Licensed Victuallers were at the head of the civilization
of the empire. It was said that "knowledge is power;" very well—then the
public had to thank them and their brewers. They might talk of their
cheap periodicals, but, he would ask, would there be any circulation of
instruction in this kingdom if it was not for the respectable firm of
_Read_ and Co.? Another gentleman was a _Whitbread_—he might say, a
wit-bred and born: but there was no end of illustration; and, if
knowledge was power, it was a brewer's dray-horse power; it passed to
the public through the cellars of the publicans, and all he could say
was, if it came up "_heavy_," it went down light. "He should,
_therefore_, give—Prosperity to the Licensed Victuallers' Institution."

The toast is drunk with applause—the Chairman shortly after follows its
example, and by two in the morning the company have got under the table
over their wine.


                             DID YOU EVER?

Did you ever know a sentinel who could tell what building he was keeping
guard over?

Did you ever know a cabman, or a ticket-porter, with any change about
him?

Did you ever know a tradesman asking for his account who had not "a bill
to take up on Friday?"

Did you ever know an omnibus cad who would not engage to set you down
within a few yards of any place within the bills of mortality?

Did you ever know a turnpike-man who could be roused in less than a
quarter of an hour, when it wanted that much of midnight?

Did you ever see a pair of family snuffers which had not a broken
spring, a leg deficient, or half-an-inch of the point knocked off?

Did you ever know a lodging-house landlady who would own to bugs?

Did you ever know the Boots at an inn call you too early for the morning
coach?

Did you ever know a dancing-master's daughter who was not to excel
Taglioni?

Did you ever know a man who did not think he could poke the fire better
than you could?

Did you ever know a Frenchman admire Waterloo Bridge?

Did you ever know a housemaid who, on your discovering a fracture in a
valuable China jar, did not tell you it was "done a long time ago?" or
that it was "cracked before?"

Did you ever know a man who didn't consider _his_ walking-stick a better
walking-stick than your walking-stick?

Did you ever know a penny-a-liner who was not on intimate terms with
Lytton Bulwer, Capt. Marryat, Sheridan Knowles, Tom Hood, Washington
Irving, and Rigdum Funnidos?

Did you ever know a hatter who was not prepared to sell you as good a
hat for ten-and-sixpence as the one you've got on at five-and-twenty
shillings?

Did you ever know a red-haired man who had a very clear notion of where
scarlet began and auburn terminated?

Did you ever know a beef-eater go to the play in his uniform?

Did you ever know a subscriber to the Anti-Cruelty-to-Animals Society
who didn't kick the cat?

Did you ever know a lady with fine eyes wear green spectacles?

Did you ever know an amateur singer without "a horrid bad cold?"

Did you ever see a cool fat woman in black in the dog-days?

Did you ever go to see Jack Sheppard without feeling a propensity to run
home and rob your mother?

Did you ever know an author who had not been particularly ill-used by
the booksellers?

Did you ever know fifty killed and fifty wounded by a railroad accident,
without the fifty who were not killed being congratulated by the
directors that they were only wounded?

Did you ever know a man who did not consider that he added ten years to
his life by reading the "Comic Almanack?"

[Illustration:

  JULY—Long days and Long ears.
]

 1841.]                              JULY.


                      THE USHER OF THE BLACK ROD.

[Sidenote: Boys
           go back
           in coaches.
           Thrashing
           time
           approaches.
           ♃ ♒ ♈
           Now
           School-storms
           reign;
           ☌ ☊ ⚹
           Begins
           again
           the
           Hurry—cane.]

 The time of holiday is fled from little Master J.,
 He's going to the school instead of going to the play;
 His master is come _home_, his fate 'tis easy to forebode,
 And heartily he wishes now the "schoolmaster _abroad_:"
 He cannot love him, though he be sweet-temper'd, 'tis in vain,
 Un_able_ is the boy to see the sugar in the _cane_!
 A chaise is waiting at the door, in which he's doom'd to go,
 He knows and feels its very wheels will bear him to his woe;
 The thing he rides in he derides, and there, for joy, would dance
 If master, chaise, and all, were safe at _Père la Chaise_, in France!

 To force a young and chubby boy to school, away from home,
 'S like taking a young Regulus to Carthage, back from Rome:
 Upon his _bed_, more like a _board_, he cries and lies awake,
 His _fruit_ is fruitless, and he feels he doesn't _need_ his cake!
 His bat is chang'd into a _bawl_, the rod'll never stop,
 It's always whipping _bottom_, now, instead of whipping _top_:
 Book'd for a flogging, whether book proclaim him dunce, or clever,
 Kept from the play_ground_, oftentimes upon no _ground_ whatever:
 Penned in from good hard exercise, hard exercise to pen,
 And told that slaving present boys is saving future men!

[Illustration:

  School exercise.
]

23. Chinese Expedition blockaded Canton. Sailed for Chusan.

[Illustration:

  Picking and choosing.

  Wooing in black and white.
]

          Our British Bull, whom nothing well can stop,
            Directed by Victoria Regina,
          Went, right ahead, into a China shop,
            And set himself to work a breaking China!

          Be sure he didn't preach or _Cant on_ there:
            The expedition he had set his shoes in,
          Kept fighting with an expedition rare,
            And didn't stop for _picking_ or for _Chusan_!

          The town was well besieged; for Johnny took
            Position up too strong to be evaded;
          And, like the wood-cuts of this comic book,
            _Canton_ was soon most thoroughly _block-aided_!


                            ODE TO THE SEA:

                         (WITH INTERRUPTIONS).

       _Written on Margate sands, by Miss Belinda Bucklersbury._

           Oh! lovely Sea; sweet daughter of the sky!
           To thee I pour my soul; on thee I cry:
           Oh! let some sister Naïad float this way,
           Lend me her wand, then 'mid the waves I'll stray.

  [Here you are, my lady. Bathe you for a shilling. Comfortablest
    machine on the beach; and no hextry charge for soap and towels.]

              Oh! for the merry sea-bird's wing, to fly
              To where yon sunny cloud floats in the sky,
              And seems a fairy palace built of light,
              A happy home, where all is gay and bright.

  [Try a donkey, ma'am. He'll carry you as quviet as a lamb, and
    nuffink von't tire him.]

         Ocean! how strange, how wondrous strange thy power,
         At morning's dawn, or glowing sunset hour!
         Ev'n now my heart earth's narrow bounds hath pass'd;
         My swelling brain for its cribbed cell's too vast.

  [Take a pair o' sculls, ma'am. I'll row you a mile out and a mile in
    for half-a-crown; and there aint a trimmer little craft in all
    Margate, than "Moll o' Wapping."]

        All sweet emotions on thy shores abound:
        All gentle passions gentler here are found.
        'Twas here first sprang to life bright Beauty's Queen;
        Nurtured and cradled on thy billows green.

  [Buy a Wenus's ear, Miss? or a box o' powders to perwent
    sea-sickness? Only von and sixpence the lot.]

        Here soothing thoughts come borne on zephyr's wing,
        And round the heart, like summer flowers, spring,
        Sweet thoughts of love, that all thoughts else control,
        And in one mighty passion bind the soul.

  [Here's a prime box o' smuggled cigars, Miss, for your sweet-heart!
    or a nice little keg o' rale French brandy, for yourself! Let you
    have 'em a bargain.]

            While yet a child, Ocean, I loved to stand
            Gazing and list'ning on thy pebbly strand;
            And, even now, the song I seem to hear—
            The mariner's song, to my young heart so dear.

  [Yoi-hoi!—Yoi-ee-ho!—Yow!—Yoi-ee-hey!—Eiugh?—Yoi-oi!—Oi-yoi!—
    Ee-ow-oi-yo hough! &c. &c.]

          Oh! mighty, wondrous world; what fearful forms
          Of giant force thou nursest in thy storms!
          Here pond'rous whales 'mid crashing icebergs stray;
          There vast leviathans with tempests play.

  [Here's your perriwinkles! penny a pint!
    Winkle-winkle-winkle-winkle-winkle-man! Fine fresh winkles, only a
    penny a pint!]

           Behold, along the beach, these beauteous shells!
           In each, I ween, some ocean-spirit dwells:
           Pluck we the first. It's pearly depths behold!
           What hues of crimson, em'rald, azure, gold!

  [Oh! crikey, Bill; vot a conch that lady's got!]

            Alas! I'm but a hapless child of earth;
            I cannot stray where syren songs of mirth
            Are heard in coral bowers with pearls bedight;
            On me sweet Fortune never smiled so bright!

  [Try your luck, marm, in the Lottery? A musical box, two paper
    nautiluses, and a piece of the wreck of the _Royal George_. Only
    von shilling a ticket, and only two numbers wacant.]

           Ofttimes at eve, when the pale moon shines clear,
           And soft winds sigh, those notes I seem to hear:
           Ev'n now, methought I heard the magic strain,
           Oh! syren, sing that well-known song again!

                  [Nix, my Dolly, pals, fake away—
                  Ni-ix, my Dolly, pals, fake away.]

              But, oh! a weight oppresses my sad soul;
              My spirits sink beneath its dread control.

  [EASE HER!—Ease her!]

             Thy boiling waves my daring footsteps spurn;
             To earth again in grief I'm forced to turn.

  [HALF TURN ASTARN!—Half turn astarn! GO ON!—Go on!]

           Farewell! farewell! though I could stay and gaze
           On thy bright tide, sweet Sea, for endless days;
           But earthly voices call me to the shore,
           I must away; fare—fare-thee-well once more!

              (_In a very small voice, half a mile off._)

  [Holloa, marm, you can't get back! you've let the tide come up all
    roun you, and if you attempt to stir you're a drownded woman. Stop
    where you are, and hold fast by your camp-stool till the man
    comes; and he'll bring you ashore wery comfortable on his back for
    half-a-crown.]

[Illustration]


                             A WATER PARTY.
                      TEA-TOTALLERS IN THEIR CUPS.

[Sidenote:              T
                        T
                        T
                        T
                        T
                        T
                        T
                        T
                        T
                        —
           _Tea-Total_ =T=]

 A poet, a tea-totaller, lay losing of his breath,
 And rhapsodizing, as it were, within the jaws of death.
 Mad scraps of most perverted verse, from Campbell, Scott, or Hemens
 And full of spirits, as of song, in his delirium tremens,
 He gasped a cup and couplet—both were finished in a minute,
 Then died of drinking too much tea, with too much brandy in it.

 A lawyer turned tea-totaller, from drink to get reliefs,
 Brief was his vow, and broken soon, perhaps, for want of briefs;
 One summer's day, near Temple Bar, with temperance to look big,
 He tied its medal to his gown, its riband to his wig
 When, all at once, a sudden thirst of his resolve made sport,
 The inn he turned into, alas! was not an inn of court:
 And that tea-totaller was found in a curious place to find one,
 Not bright with wit before a bar, but as drunk as a beast behind one!

 A lady with a ruby nose, and skin all blotched about,
 Who suddenly perceived that gin put her complexion out,
 Soon took a "water vow," right well determined none should warp it,
 And kept it till, one day, she fell for dead upon the carpet!
 They took her up, they chafed her hand, they rubbed her temples over;
 How was it, then, that lady dear did never more recover?
 Why the drunken waterman had turn'd—(some horrid death he merits),
 As temperance had made water scarce—her cistern on with spirits!

 It's odd what things befal men of a temperance way of thinking,
 Most strange the best tea-totallers should always die of drinking
 Soaking the stomach so with tea, as if its coats were fustian,
 Yet, somehow, bursting with, at last, spontaneous combustion;
 The teapot is the sign from which, most vigorous, too, their sups they
    are,
 Yet when they meet they're sure to be discover'd in their cups, they
    are;
 And when their next procession comes, just take a notice cursory,
 How many totallers will die of their sober anniversary.

4. Oyster days begin. Milton's Paradise Lost. 11. Dog days end.

[Sidenote: Barking
           in
           Essex.]

    Tom was a martyr—but it was to spirits, wine, and prog;
    The name that people called him by was always—Jolly Dog!
    He died of surfeit—and his friends, all at a funeral splendid,
    Wept tears of pious grief to find his jolly-dog days ended!

[Illustration:

  Company's Terminus at Houndsditch
]

[Illustration:

  AUGUST—Idées Napoliennes.
]


                       THE INVASION OF BOULOGNE.

  _From Henry Dobbs, Stoker on Board the City of Edinburgh Steamer, to
    Bill Ball, Touter to the Commercial Company in London._

"O CRIKY BIL—ven i tuk my Last tender partin off yew down in the cole
ole off the citty off Heddinborow and Himprinted that here kis on the
hafecshonat mouth of yewr sister kate vich she sed she wood nevver wash
off the Blak til it wore away in the riglar Coarse off natur, litel did
i think i shood evver cum to be puld up afore a lot of frensh Beaks and
cald upon to comit Purgatory by swaring my name was mountseer Hornree
Doe insted of plain Harry Dobbs. Arter a deal of bother and giberish,
Gilty or not gilty, ses they. Parly voo fronsy, ses i, at vich the juge
de Pay (so cald i supose becaws yew ar obleegt to Bribe him befour yew
can get anny justiss out off him) busted out a laffin; arter vich the
Porkipine du Raw repeted the kestin, Gilty or not gilty, ses he, Non mi
recordo, ses i, at vich off vent the old juge agen, wors nor evver the
Lord mare and mister obler, tho i ust to Think they vas the Rumist chaps
for Larkin a feler off to the gallass as evver i seed. Thinks i if yew
vonts to cum down uppon me with yewr Burns justiss i shal cum down uppon
yew vith my Cokes.

"But to Begin at the beginin. at Blakvall ve tuk on board a Grate menny
of the mountseers, most on em cummin down by the Stand-up train—vich
gravesend Dito and Dito Dito hern Bay and margit. Bean my 1st
interduxion in frensh sosiaty i may say i vos tuk ½ a turn astarn at
fust But sune got my steem up and vos awl rite in no time. Vot i most
admires in the frensh carekter is vot devvels they ar to Drink! theyde
got lots off sperrits vith em, and ass i say Ven yewr goin a Long viage
theres nothink like sumthink Short. Afore ve vos fairly out off the
rivver the gemmen vos ½ seas over, and sich Rummy felers for Brandy i
nevver clapt my iis on. Allso hosions of lemmonaid and neguss, and ass
nateraly concludes amung so menny papishes lots of pop-ery. The same of
soder vater and ginger bear, spannish juce vater and O sucree, so that
ass the capten sed instid off bean at Hern bay yew mite have fancied
yewrself at the Cove of Cork. And deer Bil alow me to say in regard of
Drinkin there aint no cumparrison between the O D V and the O Sucree.
The fust is rely a cappital O.

"Onfortinat the vind began to get up ven ve got into Blew vater, and
sune arter cummin on a gale vas a deth Blow to their merryment, the
grate guns sune clering avay their pokket Pistols. From ramsgit ve run
to Rye, vich yew mite hav told by the Rye faces, and the fowl vether
continnying the mountseers vos awl sicks and sevens. Arter a vile there
vos a bit of a lul, vich yung Bony tuk the hopertunity of the sea
sicknes makin him a litel moor Sober to adres his joly cumpanyons everry
1, vich such ass dared ventur their ankerchers from their mouths Waved
em in the air cryin ip ip huray! in their frensh lingo, and then awl
vent down into the salloon and sune arter cum up agen Togd out ass
genralls and Kernels, vich vos fine Nuts for our felers, and deer Bill
my opinyan is they vood hav tuk franse prisoner Esy anuff only for 1
thing vich is this, Bean awl Listed ass Comandin ofisirs and no Privets
their vosent nobdy to obay orders ven the vord vos gev to Fire, and next
time they atemts a hinwasion they must take out less Musk and moor
Muskits, and not fancy they can konker a kingdum vith nothink but
sedlits Powder.

"The 1st land ve made in franse vas Cape Greeny,[4] vich vos werry
appropo. But dident go ashore til ve got to neer Bulloan, ven the chap
ass had got the Live egle in the cage bean too Drunk to make him Go
threw his performenses and me haveing tuk the hopertunaty of Toggin
myself out in 1 off the hoffisirs castoff sutes, jined the xpedishun ass
a Vollunteer, vith the egle atop off my hed and 1 off the Cole saks
under my cote to Bring avay the Lewy nappolions in. Ve then marcht to
Bulloan and jined by several werry Respectabel fish wimmen enterd the
barrax, vere there vos a Rigler shindy betwixt the sham solgers and the
Real vons. Yung Bony shot 1 poor feler, ass he sed for the Meer fun off
the thing and to kepe the game alive, vich deer Bil it seems werry Ard
dont it for a chap vot refusis a Napolion to be put off vith a Pistole.
Ass sune ass wede got kikt out of the barrax Prince lewy gev a Permotion
in honner. 1 chap vos created a Leegun of honner, a nuther a Shivvileer,
a nuther a Gennerrallissimmo and so on, and deer Bill i beleav i vos
created Sumthink, but not bean quite perfict in my frensh ar unable to
say vot i am, so pleas Direct at pressant ass nuthink but Nite off the
egle, and ven i No myself Betor vil drop yew ½ a hounse to inform.

Footnote 4:

  Query—Cape Grisnez?—_Rig. Fun._

"Ve next marcht to the Hi toun vich tawk of frensh Perlitenes they shet
the Dore in our fases; and then Repared to the Grand collum Bilt by the
riginal Bony to comensurate the Grand viktry ass vos to have bean
hobtained by the Grand army ass vos to hav hinvaded ingland. Hear, arter
bilkin the dorekeper out off his 6 pense, the chap vot carred the
standerd mounted up to the top, and me Thinkin that vos the safist place
for the pressant Followd his leder vith the egle, vich as sune as ve
arived at the sumat had a Werry hextensif vew off Prinse lewy a cuttin
his unlukky, folowd by his folowers at Hi pressure spede, and awl makin
for the coast ass if the devvle ad em. In coarse the collum vos sune
surounded and ve vos sumond to cum down. Poor mountseer havein the
frensh union Jak found upon him vos sune tuk up and sent to Prisn. But
deer Bil takin the Hopertunaty off a rigement off the nashonal gards and
a kumpny off the John Dams and a batalyan of the perventif sirvis Rushin
on the poor standerd barer at the Botom of the collum i Let fly the egle
from the Top and takein out the cole sak Blakt myself awl over and
rented my cloas into a meer Stoker, so ass ven they come to xamen me
Found nothink like Proof pozitif, and insted off bean brote in a frensh
Hero shal turn myself out to be nothink but a Halibi.

"Ass for the Grand army most off em ran into the vater and vos Tuk
prizners by the bathin wimen. Sum got Pepperd by the John Dams and sum
got Salted by the oshun, but deer Bil to conclude i shal nevver jine a
Bony party agen as lungs i breathe, and Prinse lewy will xcuse me sayin
he showd himself a Propper goose for ingagin in sich a war of Propper
gander.

                                                 "yewrs Truly,
                                                          "HARRY DOBBS."

[Illustration: SEPTEMBER—"Massacre of S^t. Bartholomow."]

[Illustration]

[Illustration:

  Escape from Cork Jail.

  New Chaco for P. Albert's Own.
]


                         THE BLACK BOTTLE IMP.

       September, men say, is the season of sport,
       They have it at college, they have it at court;
       They have it afield, in a manner most pleasant,
       By means of the partridge, the hare, and the pheasant;
       And I now ask the reason, of saint and of sinner,
       Why it shouldn't be had, now and then, after dinner?

       The guests were assembled in uniform dress,
       They all meant to get _at_ but not _into a mess_;—
       Dinner's over! they are not mere troops of the line,
       So the peach and the pine lend a zest to the wine:
       Port, sherry, and claret, are small for a swell,
       And there's one of them orders a draught of moselle!

       'Tis brought, but, behold! how the terror is vast,
       All the eyes of the chairman are looking aghast!
       And his hair's standing up, with a kind of a dread,
       On exactly the place where it should stand—his head;
       And the officers round him first wink and then nod,
       As much as to say, How exceedingly odd!

       Perhaps they may think him absurd or uncivil;
       Well a gentleman may be who looks on a devil!
       A bandy-shanked, big-bellied, black-bottle imp,
       With the legs of a spider, the arms of a shrimp,
       And a couple of feet, with remarkable toes,
       That keep dancing defiance wherever he goes!

       "He has kicked thro' a peach, he's jumped over a pine,
       He'll murder this merry mess-table of mine;
       My senses are scatter'd, my feelings are hurt,
       I ne'er saw such a devil come in at dessert!
       What, ho! turn him out!" the command wasn't heard,
       For the officers answer'd him never a word!

       Then he storm'd and he threaten'd, to heighten the sport,
       In a manner most martial, to hold a full court;
       But the black-bottle devil was not to be done,
       He first gave a leap, next a skip, next a run;
       And then quietly halting, right under the snout
       Of the swell who had summon'd him, _pour'd himself out_!

10. Quadruple Treaty ratified, 1840.


                      A LAMENT FOR BARTLEMY FAIR.

                             BY A SHOWMAN.

 Oh! lawk; oh! dear; oh! crimeny me; what a downright sin and a shame,
 To try to put down old Bartlemy Fair! I don't know who's to blame:
 Whether it's the west-end nobs, or the city folks—confound 'em! I could
    cry with vexation;
 But this I will say, if it's the latter, they ain't fit for their
    city-wation.
 What is to become of all us poor showmen, as has embarked every penny
    we've got,
 In learned pigs, and crocodiles, and sheep with two heads, and wax
    Thurtells, and what not?
 It's werry unfair to make us an exception to the general rule of the
    nation;
 You orts to consider our wested rights, as free-born Britons, and allow
    us "a compensation."
 When you stopp'd the rich West Indy merchants from dealing in poor
    African niggers,
 You allowed them twenty millions of money; and, surely, showing a few
    hinnocent wax figgers
 Aint worse than stealing one's black feller creturs, and carrying 'em
    off, and treating 'em worse than swine;
 And, let me tell you, a lamb with two tails is much more preferabler
    than a cat with nine.
 Oh! dear; oh! dear; what is to become of us all, from Mr. Wombwell down
    to the penny peeps?
 We're wuss off than the poor silenced muffin-men, or the poor
    unfortynat forbid-to-go-up-the-chimbly sweeps!
 It's fine talking, taking to other businesses; and going out as lackeys
    and servants, ifegs!
 Who, d'ye think, would take, as lady's maid or nurs'ry governess, poor
    Miss Biffin, without either arms or legs?
 And what great duchess or countess would like to have walking behind
    her, in Regent Street,
 With a powder'd head and long cane, poor Thomas Short, the Lincolnshire
    dwarf, as measures only three feet?
 Or what gentleman in the Park, driving his cab on a Sunday afternoon,
    would choose
 For his tiger, stuck up behind in top-boots and white gloves, the
    Nottingham youth, as stands 7 foot 3 in his shoes?
 To say nothing of the indignity of the thing: for how is a man to go to
    submit to come down,
 From being a Royal Red-Indian Prince, to nothing but a poor
    common-day-labouring clown?
 And the Siamese twins, oh! Gemini, they might advertise in the _Times_
    for a cent'ry,
 Before any merchant would take them into his counting-house, to keep
    his books by double entry.
 And now Mister Bunn's given up Drury Lane to Mister Musard and his
    French and German crew,
 What is the dancing elephant, and the performing lion, and the acting
    horses and dromedaries to do?

 And the poor Albanians, with their red eyes and long hair so flowing
    and white?
 By Jove, such news as this is enough to make every inch of it turn grey
    in a night.
 And the Indian juggler, poor fellow! neat as imported from the coast of
    Delhi,—
 He may swallow swords and daggers long enough before he's able to fill
    his belly!
 We've all our ups and downs in this world, it's said—or, at least, used
    to be;
 But "Marshall Mayor" wont leave so much as a poor single Up-and-down
    for we.
 And one thing I must take the liberty to say, I don't see why the poor
    people's fairs
 Should be put down and done away with, while the rich _Fancy_ people
    are allowed to keep up theirs;
 And as for the morality, it does seem rather funny to shut up Bartlemy
    Fair o' Mondays,
 While they keep open their genteel wild-beast-show in the Regency Park
    o' Sundays,
 Our booths are our homes; and we've nowhere to go to when these are
    taken,
 They must recollect that the Learned Pig ain't a lord, like the Learned
    Bacon.
 The learned pig may carry himself off to Newgate market—it is but just
    over the way,
 And the alligator may indulge himself shedding crocodile tears for ever
    and a day:
 The elephant may pack up his trunk; for Smithfield he must abandon:
 And the mare with seven feet may cut her stick, for she hasn't a leg to
    stand on:
 The wonderful calf with two heads had better pack up his traps and
    begone;
 For the Lord Mayor hasn't no fellow-feeling only for calves with one.
 The pelican had better go and peck his bowsum somewhere else, and not
    stop here in such distress,
 A-bringing up his four little ones (with a drop of blood a-piece) to be
    only pelicans of the wilderness:
 The industrious fleas may hop the twig as soon as they like, for one
    thing is very clear,
 If they ain't off of their own accord, the Lord Mayor will soon _help_
    'em off with a flea in their ear!
 As for myself, I've made up my mind what to do; though, of course, I
    can't quite keep down my sensations,
 In parting with a hanimal which I have so long looked on almost as one
    of my own relations;
 But I shall sell my GIGANTIC DURHAM HEIFER (and so put an end to their
    noises and rows),
 And then—as the next nearest trade—I shall take to Waccination, and go
    and live at Cowes!

                             OCTOBER.                             [1841.

[Illustration]

[Illustration: Harper.]

[Illustration: Bowman.]

[Illustration: Platt.]

[Illustration: Cooke.]


                          A PROMENADE CONCERT.

      Harper and Beau-man, and Platt and Cooke,
      I bring you into this comical book;
      Just as I've seen you blowing so hard,
      At your own original Strand Prom'nade!

      Harper, you're no harper at all;
        A harper sings as he rattles his strings;
        You don't meddle with any such things:
        Your strings are your lungs, with their brazen tongues;
      If men don't like your play—they may lump it;
        But you beat, you know, the world at a _blow_,
      And it can't play a _trick_ but you're sure to _trump-it_!

      Beau-man! Bowman! I tell you what,
      If you are a bowman I'll be shot,
      From a n_arrow_ chest you do not sigh;
      No _quiver_ have you, and no big _bull's eye_;
      Yet with your long bassoon so deep,
      Through _passages_ many you're heard to sweep:
      Some of them light, and some of them dark,
      And, whatever their measure, you _hit your mark_.

      Platt! Platt! I can't stand that—
      To call you Platt is both rude and raw,
      Just as if _you_ were a man of _straw_,
      Or a twister of _hair_, or a man at a hell,
      Playing the part of a _Bonnetter_ well.
      No, no; that is no go;
      The public never will let it be so:
      You are a _navigator_ born,
      And all your life will be _rounding Cape Horn_;
      Your sails will be full of fair wind to the last,
      And there's no one more perfectly _used to the blast_!

      Cooke! Cooke! you comical elf,
      _You_ never _dress'd_ anything but yourself;
      You are no Cook, sir, although, by your fun,
      I've known some few people most _thoroughly done_;
      _You_ are "first hautboy," a tried and a true,
      And what pleasant hours I _owe, boy_, to you!

[Illustration:

  Low note.
]

[Illustration:

    High note.
]

[Illustration:

     Sharp.
]

[Illustration:

    Flat.
]

[Illustration: A flourish of Trumpets.]

[Illustration:

  OCTOBER—"A _Drive_ in Drury lane."
]


                             LONDON LIONS.

  "_To mister wilyam Waters gardner to squire Brakenhurst, Pipe uppon
                                 trent
                            staffordsheer._

 "DEER WILYAM,

"i now Take up my cast mettle pen & ink to inform yew that i arived safe
in lundun by the Hup train without bean Blowd to attoms, haveing
proffidenshally tuk my plase in a fust clas carige, wich the charges is
for bean Blew to bits in a 2nd class twenty shilin & bean Only yewr arm
broke in the fust clas 30 shilin. Allso their is a 3rd clas lately aded,
wear in adision yew may catch a Bad cold & rewmatisum for life for the
smal charge of 14 shilin. But to return to ariving in lundun, my i! it
is a rare plase. Off its size yew may juge wen i tel yew i have Bean
hear a weak & hav not yet seed awl, But i hav seen a grate menny
wunders—plays & conserts & cosmyrammers & diarammers & call-and-see-ems
& one think or anuther. But i wish i had cum herlier in the seson, ass
threw the fog i hav Mist a gud dele.

"Ass naturaly xpex i 1st pade my cumplements to Sent Pawl: it is a
Bewtifull bilding—only the lower ½ wich yew carnt sea for the sut & the
hupper ½ wich yew carnt sea for the fog. Leastways such was the case the
day i was their: allso the Same afterwoods at West minster aby,
partickly the poets korner bean quite cuvverd with Rhyme. And appropo i
doant advize strangers to vissit lundun like me by the Gide buke, ass i
found the disadvarntige of taking the lions ass they ar set down, namely
1st goin to Sent Pawls, then to West minster aby, then to sent Marys
witechappel then to sent Looks chelsy & cettera. And the same of uther
xibisions, ass from axual xperiance canot recummend going from the
sologgicle gardns in the regensy park to the sologgicles in the Sorry
side, & then to the diarammer & then to the tems tunnel.

"But to return to sent Pawls, i went inside & was lost in Asstonishment,
partickly at the smal space ass is aloud for servess, wich deer wilyam,
it is just ass if at Trent hall master was to shut up the Drawing rume,
& the dining rume & the liberary & the sirvents awl & so forth & only
live in the Butlers pantry. After lissenin to the singin for about ¾ of
a nour i axt 2 off the beetles as was crawling about wen theyde begin to
pray, but insted off replying the 2 blak beetles busted their selves out
a laffin & ran off like Devvles coach orses.

"My next vissit was Doory lane, which is the 1st Inglish theater going——
for frensh fidlers and Jerman orn bloers. The musick was verry
Bewtifull, partickly the basune, which quite went to my art, & put me in
mind off Deer ome & the grene feelds & meddows & evrythink—it was so
like the cryin of a yung carf that had Lost its muther. Wat aded verry
hi to the Afect off the musik was the yung gentel men & ladys a beatin
time with there walkin stix & umberrellows, wich aded to sum Humming the
hair and uthers a marching about exact to the tune rely shows wat may be
Dun in such a plase ass lundun & ow sirvissable sich things is to
improve the Nashonal taste. Allso the same of dres, wich it cumbines the
hellegancys off a maskerade & fancy bawl, menny of the yung men bean
Drest in the karecters of plowmen with smok froks & cettera, and uthers
like hakny coach men & homynibus cads, and sum Disgized in likker. Allso
it is verry pleesing to sea how atentif the yung men ar to the
percedings, for even if a lady cums in during the performense they woant
so much ass Stir from there seats—for feerd off Disturbing the musik.

"Next morning i went to take a walk in covven Gardin, but was verry
disapinted, insted off finding it Lade out in gravvel walks & flour
beds, edged with box and twiggy hosiery, was ful of shops & grate lung
gallerys, & insted off at 1 end a Prety litel arber like ware i ust to
sit corting yewr Deer sister mary is nuthink but a Grate church with a
luminated clok & a lot of grave stones lying about.

"Allso, deer wilyam, i musent forget the briges. they ar realy
Wunderfull & ass for the arches i nevver sea sich Archery in awl my
Days. But Wat yew woodent Like is makeing yew pay tol, just ass if yew
was a hoss or a has, only with this difrance, not alowing yew to cum Bak
the same day without paing afresh, which the 1st time i went over
Waterloo brige i ad quite a Waterloo batel with the man about it, & wat
was wuss for the unperlitenes of the thing, a Bewtifull yung lady cuming
that way, i axualy cort the feller a Tolling the bell. But the most
curus of awl the briges is 1 bilt by mister brunel wich goes Hunder the
warter insted off Hover it, & in lew off entering threw a turnpike gate
as usuel, yew are obleegt to go down a Wel ole, tho for my own part i
Declind the later, ass the old maxum ses Let wel alone.

"From their i perceded to the blue cote skule, a wunderfull site, wear
underds & underds of litel bys & gels of boath sexxs is tort evrythink
free, & ass befour observd the bys is nown by their Blu cotes & the gels
by their Blu stokkins. Same day went to sea Gys ospital, so cawld on
acount off the yung docters makin sich Gys off them selvs: allso from
there to Sent tommasses, but unfortynat coodent gane admision, not bean
1 off Sent tommases Days. Consequensialy, wishing to have a pepe at the
shiping, i inquired my way to the flete, but insted off Old inglands
wudden wals found nuthink but sum uncomon big Stone wals & on axing a
noo polease wear i cood sea a gud large Ship or 2 was Derected to
Smithfeeld.

"Anuther day i went to sea the towr, wear is anuff guns and canons to
canonize old Maimit aley & all his raskly egipsions put together. Allso
the mint ust to be hear, but not off late ears, tho they stil presserve
the ax as cut off the hed off Hanna Bullion.

"Yestoday i vissitted the ile of Dogs and spent the hevening at the
indyan Bow Wow, wich, deer wilyam, a indyan Bow Wow is the same thing
ass a inglish Row de Dow. But to conclude, deer wilyam, in spite of
lundun & awl its wikkidnes i shal be glad to cum down to deer natif
stafordsheer agen, for ass i say, Ome's ome after awl—wen yewr munnys
spent & deer wilyam, giv my Tru luv to yewr sister mary & beg her
exceptence off the inclosd smawl trifl off a steal bodkin wich i wood
have maid it a silver thimbull but unfortynat wayed moor then ½ a ounse,
& deer wilyam, if theirs anythink i can dew for yew in lundun doant say
no, i wood go threw fire and warter to serv yew, but pleas to send the
munny, & rite ass sune ass yew can, not forgeting to pay the post, wich
is ass follos namely for ½ a oz. 1 peece of stikkin plaster, for a hole
2 ditos or 1 Blu un, for 1½ oz. 3 ditos or a Blak & blu, and so on up to
a pound, abuv wich, as a pork pi or a stilton chese or anythink of that
sort, it wood be Beter to send it by the Rale rode or pikfords van. So
no moor from yewr umbel sirvent

                                                    RALPH ROUGHDIAMOND."

[Illustration:

  NOVEMBER—"_Sees_-unable weather"
]

[Illustration]


                             ON GOOD TERMS.

[Illustration:

  Termagants.
]


                              TERM-AGANTS.

    Gather, sweet Lawyers, in Westminster-hall;
      There's more game in your bag, than a sportsman e'er shoots:
    You _feed_, and you're _fed_, let whatever befal;
      And your flowing gowns cover your sins and your _suits_,
    Who says that yours isn't a right royal sport,
    When it's known that you all make your fortunes at _Court_?

5. France in a state of spontaneous combustion.

[Sidenote: Through air as
           dark as
           dirty muslin,
           [Illustration]
           Duke of Guys.
           The city people
           go
           a-guzzlin.]

           France is a powder magazine,
           A sort of foreign infernal machine—
           A barrel of brimstone, of odour ambrosian,
           Apparently brewed for a "triple X"-plosion!

           She's been fermenting her beer for years!
           She laughs in her frenzy, or revels in _Thiers_—
           For war she'll riot, at peace she'll scoff,
           And she _wont_ go _on_ till she _does_ go _off_!

           She's quite in a "fifth of November" state,
           To blow up some one at any rate;
           If Guy Fawkes were over there—my eyes!
           She'd make him a Peer—as the Duke of Guys!

           She'd have her Monarch in air be blown;
           Not one of the throne, but the overthrown!
           And when he was shivered to atoms, she'd wait
           To pick up his bits to bury in state!

           She'd shoot at him till he was quite unnerved,
           And then address him on being _preserved_.
           But a King—to say it I do not stickle—
           In such a _preserve_ must be always in _pickle_!

           I wouldn't be Louis-Philippe, I say,
           If I had a thousand Louis a-day.
           To be King in a land of such whimsical slaugh
           'S like being a Monarch inside of a mortar!

21. Princess Royal born, 1840.


                         CRADLE HER (NOT HYMN).

[Illustration:

  Lords in waiting.
]

                 As you're born in a _palace_,
                     It's clear you must not
                 Be permitted, young baby,
                     To sleep in a _cot_:
                 So they've stirred up their wits,
                     With invention's pap-ladle,
                 And determined to give you
                     A _Nautilus_ cradle;
                 Most loyally certain,
                     Whate'er it may do,
                 It will ne'er make a _naughty lass_,
                     Baby, of you!


                             A LONDON FOG.

Now, the sun, after a vain attempt to catch a glimpse of St. Paul's, or
the Monument, gives it up in despair; while his morning herald, Lucifer,
finds the fog more than a Lucifer match for him, and goes out like a
damp Jones-and-Co. of a windy night. Now, the sleepy housemaid is in a
fine trepidation, on discovering that her missis _was_ right in giving
her seven-o'clock ring an hour ago; she (the maid) having just counted
eight in full, on the kitchen clock. Now, hook noses and cries of "clo"
are more rife than ever; and, somehow or other, silver spoons and forks
disappear more frequently from the "domestic hearth." Now, the poor
behind-hand city clerk, who _must_ be at his desk, in Lombard-street, by
nine (it is now half-past eight by _Lambeth Palace clock_), determines
to sacrifice fourpence on the Iron-boat Company; and, having passed an
agonizing ten minutes in the cold, sloppy cabin, is at last annihilated
by the steward's informing him that, in consequence of the denseness of
the fog, the captain has determined not to run the boat this morning.
Now, invisible cabmen drive unseen horses along viewless thoroughfares,
and omnibusses go, flitting like so many Flying Dutchmen, through the
mist and fog. Now, the two young gentlemen who have a coffee-and-pistol
appointment at Chalk Farm, find it anything but agreeable to be set up
only three yards asunder, instead of having the length of Primrose Hill
between them, so as to have had a reasonable chance of _missing_ one
another. Now, a walk in the neighbourhood of Smithfield is by no means
improved in its desirableness; it was bad enough before, but nothing to
what it is under the "Bull's new system." Now, young Government clerks,
who have to trudge "from the west," as they call it (namely—
Marylebone-lane, "Chesterfield-street, Portland-place," and so forth),
are highly indignant, and more than usually vituperative of the
superiors of their departments, whom they commonly describe
(particularly if of a political turn) as vile sinecurists, "grinding the
last drop of blood from the brows of a suffering people, to pay for
their own pleasures, and to minister to their own inordinate desires!"
Now, nursemaids _not_ "accustomed to the care of children" (in a fog),
suddenly find their tender charges minus divers coral necklaces, ostrich
feathers, gold lockets, &c. &c.; while the interesting young lady who
leads dear little Fido about the parks, in a string, and reads Lord
Byron the while, is horrified on finding that, for the last half hour,
she has been engaged in dragging after her a mere remnant of blue
ribbon. Now, omnibus cads only shake their heads in reply to your most
earnest appeals and uplifted fingers, for their vehicles are _all_ full,
and can take in "no more." Now, "blacks" come down in torrents; and
coal-heavers and chimney-sweepers are the only persons that can show a
decent face on the occasion. Now, wood pavements are in nice condition;
particularly that in the pleasing bend by St. Giles's church; where

            "They slip now who never slipped before;
            And they who always slipped now slip the more."

Now, housemaids do their work in no time; for it's of no use looking out
for raps from chamber windows. Now, on the 5th, little boys exhibit
their Guys in all parts of the town; and, on the 9th, "children of a
larger growth" _make Guys of themselves_ all the way from Guildhall to
Westminster and back. Now, everybody has got a shawl, comforter, boa, or
bandana, round his or her neck—except the philosophers, who appear in
respirators; the result of which is, that the shawl, comforter, boa, and
bandana-ites, escape scott free, while the philosophers catch most
confounded bad colds and sore throats. Now, unhappy is that mamma who
has a juvenile party for an excursion to the Monument; for, of course,
they'll all twelve cry their twenty-four little eyes out—equally if they
go and can't see anything, or are kept at home because nothing is to be
seen. Now, on the river is confusion worse confounded, and smuggling is
going on most prosperously in all its branches. Now, the "old
traveller," just arrived by the Antwerp packet, who _will_ carry his own
portmanteau and great coat, finds, on stopping to change arms, at the
nearest post, that one or other of the commodities has disappeared while
he was comfortably adjusting its fellow. Now, telegraph captains and
weathercocks have a nice easy time of it, and the guide to the York
column is gone to see his cousins in the country. Now, men with wooden
legs look very independent, as they stump over the slushy pavement; and
people who have the misfortune to possess complete sets, are sadly
perplexed at the crossings of the Royal Exchange, Charing Cross, and the
Regent's Circus. Now, hare skins and worsted comforters are hung out
prominently at the haberdashers' shops, and furs, "at _this_ season,"
are, by no means, "selling at reduced prices." Now, the man "wot lights
the lamps" in St. James's Park, is in a regular state of bewilderment,
and not unfrequently is found running up one of the saplings instead of
the lamp-post. Now, the young gentleman who has an assignation in the
"grove at the end of the vale," begins to wish he hadn't been quite so
urgent in the matter, and would give his ears for a decent excuse to be
off the bargain. Now, honest John Sloman, the grocer, at the corner of
Cannon-street, in consideration of the werry orrid state of the weather,
is inveigled by his wife and daughter to visit one of the promenade
concerts; to which end, having never been at a _promenade_ concert
before, honest John provides himself with a stout cane and his easy
walking boots, warranted to do four miles an hour over any turnpike-road
in the kingdom. Now, clubs are crammed, particularly the Oriental, where
enormous fires are kept up, and the chilly old nabobs cling round one
another like bats in a cellar. Now, as the plot (alias the fog)
thickens, torches make their appearance; first by dozens, then by dozens
of dozens, then by dozens of dozens of dozens: Charing-cross is as
difficult to navigate as the North-west passage, and the parks are
impossible; hackney coaches drive up against church windows; old men
tumble down cellar holes: old women and children stand crying up against
lamp-posts, lost within a street of their own homes; omnibus horses dash
against one another, and are handed over to the knacker; a gentleman,
having three ladies and a young family of children to escort home from
Astley's (on foot, of course), is in a nice predicament; all the little
boys in London are out, increasing, by their screams and halloos, the
bewilderment of the scene (_scene_, did I say?); pickpockets are on the
alert; ditto, burglars; policemen are not to be found; watchmen are
missing; in short, the whole town is in such a state of commotion and
panic, that it only requires a well-organized banditti to carry off all
London into the next county.

[Illustration]

[Illustration:

  De Porkey's Tresor.
]

[Illustration:

  Shortest Day.

  So dark, I can't see my hand.
]

[Illustration:

  Bosom Friends.
]


                            A STIRRING TIME.

Puddings, as well as people, begin to go to _pot_; cooks, as well as
drunkards, get their _coppers hot_. Lemons excel hypocrites in getting
_candid_: currants, from house to house, like crooked legs, are
_bandied_. At moist sugar, instead of white, the busy servants jump; and
wisely begin to _like_ that which they cannot _lump_. Mothers who beat
their children, whenever the whim comes in their head, now actively
betake themselves to _beating eggs_ instead. The family assemble, but
it's no longer "my lovely Rose," or my sweet William, with his pretty
stock, the _flour_ of the Christmas pudding is now the _flower of the
flock_! Father, the only one who never would to their low obscurity
demur, is now just as anxious as any to join in a _general stir_.
Ambition, alive in his breast, awakens a mighty surprise, to think that
he, who was always _mincing matters_, should begin to _mince pies_! and
they prophesy, as he rakes the _plums_, in the bowl of China or delf,
that he'll live to a Christmas-day that shall see him worth a _plum_
himself. "How fond he is on 'em all," says nurse, meaning to be clever;
"I declare he's a _mixing with his family_ more than ever!" "Yes,
nurse," responds his spouse, who thought she could do no less, "your
master's acting the part of president of the _family mess_!" and so on—
nothing whatever their placid temper a-spoiling, until the pudding's
made, and tied up, and shut down, and in the copper a-boiling!

[Illustration:

  Clock after Sun.
]

21. St. Thomas, the shortest day.

        He who is short of tin, with rent to pay,
        'S a great deal shorter than the shortest day;
        Rent is heart-rending, when it's over due,
        Four quarters, and no quarter but to sue:
        You strain your nerves for cash, with great and small,
        Only to be distrained on after all;
        And meet, when in the worst of mortal messes,
        A fresh distress to crown your old distresses!

[Illustration]

25. Christmas Bills:—

                     Alarming accounts for China.
                     A British Settlement.

[Illustration:

  DECEMBER—"A Swallow at Christmas" (Rara avis in terris)
]


                    CHRISTMAS COMES BUT ONCE A YEAR.

            Christmas comes but once a year;
              By Jove! it hadn't need come more,
            Unless it wants to ruin me
              Outright, and turn me out of door!
            That horrid fit of gout, brought on
              By neighbour Guzzle's Christmas cheer
            I thought it would have kill'd me quite;
              But Christmas comes but once a year.

            I very seldom touch a card,
              For gambling's not at all my sphere;
            I wish I hadn't played last night!
              But Christmas comes but once a year.
            In drinking, I'm most moderate:
              Oh! my poor head: oh, dear! oh, dear!
            Why did I taste that nasty punch?
              But Christmas comes but once a year.

            I do not often play the fool,
              And join in romps with younger folks;
            But where's the stoic can resist
              When pretty lips so sweetly coax?
            "Come, nunks, one game at Blindman's-buff;
              There, turn round roast beef—never fear!"
            A nice lumbago I have got;
              But Christmas comes but once a year.

            I'm rather fond of gardening,
              And curious plants delight to rear:
            The best, my mistletoe, is gone;
            But Christmas comes but once a year.
            The tree that on my natal day
              Was planted by my father dear—
            The holly-tree—is stripped quite bare;
              But Christmas comes but once a year.

            My kinsfolks—cousins, nephews, aunts,
              All come to dine on Christmas day;
            It's been the custom many years
              (Which Heaven forbid should fall away):
            But scarcely had they all arrived,
              When down the snow came, dull and drear—
            So deep, not one can get away;
              But Christmas comes but once a year.

            Of course it's very nice indeed
              To have one's kindred thus around;
            And hear one's old paternal walls
              With song, and dance, and mirth resound.
            But, then, they've taken all the beds:
              And lying on two chairs, oh! dear;
            Up in a garret—where there's rats—
              But Christmas comes but once a year.

            The London gentlemen I met
              At Drury-lane, when last in town,
            Have writt'n to say, if all goes right,
              By this day's train they're coming down.
            I know I was a _leetle_ sprung
              That night, and by their note it's clear,
            I've asked them _all five_ to my house:
              But Christmas comes but once a year.

            My wife, in honour of the time,
              Would have a friendly Christmas ball;
            They've danced a hole right through the floor,
              And ruined quite the party wall.
            And daughter Ann has fall'n in love
              With some poor dev'l, not worth, I hear
            Enough to pay the parson's fee;
              But Christmas comes but once a year.

            The servants, too, must have their rout
              (I love to see them gay and glad);
            But then they needn't all have got
              So _very_ drunk—and very mad;
            And give one warning "then and there,"
              And bid me "take my beef and beer;"
            And beg I'd "pay their wages up:"—
            But Christmas comes but once a year.

            The Christmas bills are pouring in,
              My family's increasing fast;
            Four girls, five boys—Ann, Kate, Jane, Sue,
              Tom, Dick, Jack, Fred, and Prendergast:
            And nurse has just come in to say,
              Another "little stranger" dear
            Is just arrived—there, that makes ten:—
            But Christmas comes but once a year.


                  BOTHERUM ASTROLOGICUM PRO ANNO 1841.

[Illustration]

Note now, oh! reader, the denotements of my prophet sketch: open your
eyes upon the symbols which I symbolize. Behold the Cross and the
Crescent in neighbourly collision; yet the Crescent is not Burton
Crescent, nor the Cross, King's Cross, though these localities
approximate in as close degrees: but they tell of Europe cooking the
Goose of a Pacha for the Turkey of a Sultan; and, by this time, the bird
is plucked and basted, and may be considered as thoroughly done.
Witness, too, how the dismayed tee-totaller gazes on the wreck of the
Chinese world below. But Bull is in the heart of the shop; no juggler
could save the jugs; every cup is a cup too low; the plates are dished
entirely, and the case of cruelty is equal in atrocity to the murder of
_Ware_. Now is exemplified the difference between a Man-_da_rin and a
daring man. It is breaking-up time, but no holidays. Loud is the music
of _Handle_ among the crockery, but its verbal oratory is demolished by
the entire annihilation of spout. It is going to _pot_ with a vengeance,
and occasions, in China, the perfect distortion of _every human mug_.
Tea, however, is scarce for a season. They refuse to give us their green
for our gunpowder: they mix their mixed with poison, and it is now "How
queer!" instead of "How-_qua_!" They refuse the bidding of Pidding! But
turn from hieroglyphic revealments to the signs and prognostics of the
domestic world. Is your curiosity moved to interest in the play of
Destiny? I then will act the part of _Tell_. Upon the palace of Victoria
I behold the shining of a new _sun_; the hopes of royalty may now be
_boy_-ed up, and a fair young passenger lately arrived by the first
royal _train_ will move to another _station_, and take a place lower, by
reason of what has taken place. I see the world settling, like cards,
into _pax_. Peace coming a-_pace-is_: war we shall pose with repose. The
political horizon shows clear. There will be an improvement in the
State; and notwithstanding the recent explosion of Dr. Church's engine,
I foresee no danger to Church. On the contrary, the sun will shine on
Parson's Green; and, as regards the revenue, there is every chance for a
_surplice_; probably owing to the New Church rate at which the said
engine is going.

[Illustration:

  DR. CHURCH'S ENGINE.
]


                        LATEST NEWS FROM COURT.

Nov. 21st, 1840.—Princess Royal brought in, and "ordered to be laid on
the table," like a _bill_.

Dec. 3rd.—Bill Jones found under the table, and ordered to be sent to
the _Counter_ like a _willain_. ("_So much for Buckingham!_")

          A little girl, a stranger in the palace
            Came, and the nation there was nothing sad in;
          Aladdin's lamp then brightened joy's full chalice,
            How very different when they found _a lad in_!
          The little boy's intrusion proved annoyant,
          The little girl made all a little buoyant?


                            ORIGINAL NOTES.
                                FROM THE
                 BIRMINGHAM MUSICAL FESTIVAL FOR 1840.

SEPT. 23.—Birmingham Musical Festival.—Ordered a cab; made for
Euston-square Station; landed awkwardly; got into port; ran against a
man; trod on his toe; gave my own port-man-teau to the porter. Paid my
fare; had the satisfaction of hearing the clerk say, "That's the
ticket!" Was told I must be sure to shew it when called upon; said,
"Very well;" always did like to have something to shew for my money.
Travelled briskly; steam engine a giant apparatus—a sort of Colossus of
Roads; found they'd got me into a line; couldn't help it; obliged to go;
been a long while going. Arrived at last; put up at the Hen and
Chickens; thought, from the sign of the house, charges might be fowl;
agreeably surprised to find them fair.

_Monday._—Attended rehearsal. Splendid hall; grand interior; glorious
outside; ruined the builders. Brought the stone from the Isle of
Anglesea; sent the architects to the Isle of Dogs. Good rehearsal; noble
orchestra; organ finely developed. Knynett acted non-conductor; stamped
as if he was paying stamp duty; very droll; took the flats in, put the
orchestra out. Glorious array of singers: Miss Birch stuck to her perch;
Miss Hawes obeyed the laws; Dorus Gras—made no _faux pas_; Braham's
throat gave tenor note; Phillips shone in barritone; big Lablache gave
bass _sans tache_; Cramer led with cap on head; Loder and Cooke played
by book; Dragonetti and Linley worked very well-o, on deep contra basso
and violoncello; bassoon of Beauman bothered _no_ man; horn of Platt
came in pat; Harper's trumpet obligato, capitally took its part-o; Cook
played show-boy with his hautboy; and, to end without a blunder, Chipp's
drum had, its leather under, half a ton of smothered thunder. Heard 'em
play; remembered the railroad, and couldn't help thinking that I'd got
off the _line_ into the _chords_.

_Tuesday._—Festival began. Shop full; a crammer for Cramer. You've heard
of the Chiltern Hundreds, they're nothing to the Birmingham thousands.
The seats were all uniform, but no uniform for the _staff_ officers,
only ribbons in their button-holes; beaux with bows. Singers came on,
and performance went off admirably.

_Wednesday._—Town crowded; weather wet, but the people pouring in faster
than the rain; music hall made fine shelter; full again; Mendelsohn's
hymn of praise produced lots of praise of him; people delighted;
performance stupendous; singers tired; Phillips almost knocked up; went
out to refresh himself; strolled too far, and was quite knocked down;
robbed of his purse by three brutal button-makers; he treated them to
some sovereigns; they treated him to an extra allowance of punch; he was
bruised considerably, but his watch and his barritone escaped without
injury; heard a _tallow_ chandler say, that Phillips and Mendelsohn were
the heroes of the day, but that Mendelsohn had the glory of the
_composition_, and Phillips of the _whacks_!

_Thursday._—Influx of nobility—nobs and bobs—Sir Robert Peel among the
latter.

_Friday._—Festival over; grand fancy ball at night:

Drinking, dancing, all revel, no rest; proggery, toggery, all of the
best; whisking, frisking, whirling about, till daylight comes, driving
the candle-light out: then tired, not fired, their pillows they clinch,
and the festival's come to its very last pinch.


                         MANNERS MAKE THE MAN.

         Know ye the wight one frequent meets,
         With brazen lungs around the streets
             Soliciting a job?
         His head in shovel-hat encased,
         His legs in cotton hose embraced,
             And nick-named "Dusty Bob?"

         You hold in small account, no doubt,
         One who "dust, oh!" doth bawl about,
             Yet low as his estate,
         Some philosophic thoughts belong
         To him whose time is passed among
             The ashes of the _grate_.

         Still, these are matters all apart
         From thy design, my muse, who art
             Just now intent to tell
         An episode of humble life,
         That was with courtly manners rife,
             And thus the chance befell.

         "The rosy morn, with blushes spread,
         Now rose from out Tithonus' bed,"
             Which means, the world had set
         (For these are unromantic days)
         About its work, and gone its ways,
             Forthwith to toil and sweat.

         Among the many that arise,
         To pay their morning sacrifice,
             That is, to Juggernaut,
         Themselves beneath Aurora's car,
         With Pagan zeal your dustman are
             Beyond all others fraught.

         In sooth, to speak, we would not choose
         To state these fellows _ever_ snooze,
             For bitter as the bore is,
         Nor night, nor morn, in square or street,
         Can one go forth, but he must meet,
             These grim "_memento moris_."

         But to my tale: at break of day,
         Up rose the hero of my lay,
             With hope his spirits buoy'd;
         And ever as he fill'd his cart,
         He felt a space beneath his heart
             Establishing a void.

         Loud and more loud the murmurs rise,
         Like an Æolian harp, whose sighs
             At first breathe gently; but
         Wild music from its bosom springs,
         When the wind howls among the strings,
             And agitates the gut.

         Though Bob knew nought of Æolus,
         He learnt, from this internal fuss,
             'Twas time for breakfast now:
         Or, as he said, "for bit and sup,
         His innards was a kicking up
             Sich a unkimmon row."

         'Twas thus intent on _déjeûner_,
         Our hungry dustman took his way,
             In search of fitting food:
         Nor long his quest, until he came,
         Where a spruce, gay, and buxom dame,
             Behind a counter stood.

         And, as with horny fist he smoothed his hair,
         He thus bespoke that lady debonaire:
         "Cut us a slap-up slice of Cheshire cheese,
         And tip's a twopenny burster, if you please."
         Here, 'tis befitting to relate the guise,
         In which Bob met the gentle lady's eyes.
             A poll with matted carrots thatched,
             A face with mud and smut bepatched,
             A neck and chest scarce half begirt
             With a lugubrious, yellow shirt,
             A slip of waistcoat here and there,
             Breeches, a demi-semi pair,
             And not a vestige of a coat—
             Such was our earthy _sans culotte_.

         When such an apparition met her view,
         What was most natural the dame should do?
             Straightway address her dainty self,
             To seek the treasures of her shelf?
         Or clap some musty, antiquated crust,
         Between the fingers of the man of dust?

         The latter, doubtless, and it so fell out;
         Turning, with ill-dissembled scorn, about,
         The lady-baker hardly deigned to drop
         Into his palm the patriarch of the shop;
         A venerable roll, a fixture there—
         A household nest-egg of the _boulangère_.

         Here, a domestic mouse had, long ago
             (Soon after it was dough),
         Wreathed him, as Thomas Moore would say, "his bower"
             Among the _flower_:
         And happened, accidentally, to be
             _Chez lui_,
         When madame put the piece of antique bread
         Into our dustman's hand, as hath been said.

         Now, let me ask, had Chesterfield been placed,
         What time his chyle with exercise was braced.
         To make his meal from off a living mess,
         D'ye think my Lord had kept his _politesse_?
         Or acted, as did Bob, the man of dirt,
         Who, on the instant that he did insert
         His thumb and finger in that roll so stale,
         Pull'd out the squeaking vermin by the tail;
         And seeing that the bak'ress looked aghast
         Upon the means she gave to break his fast—
         Blandly observed, "There's some mistake in this,
         I didn't ax you for a sandwich, Miss!"

[Illustration]


                            BRANDY AND SALT.

The wonderful cures effected by these ingredients have made such a noise
in the world, that we cannot resist the temptation to publish a few
facts and testimonies which have fallen under our immediate knowledge.

The first case was that of a poor man, who had been for years a martyr
to the gout, and being desirous of trying the effects of the miraculous
compound, but unable to purchase the ingredients, he tried another plan,
and perfectly succeeded in removing every symptom of inflammation, by
merely sitting a quarter of an hour with one foot in a brandy-keg, and
the other in a salt-box.


                 THE FOLLOWING IS FROM A CORRESPONDENT.

"Dear Sir,—May I beg your insertion of the following?—I was terribly
afflicted with cancer, heartburn, chilblains, thickness of breathing,
warts, headach, numbness of the joints, deafness, sore throat, lumbago,
toothach, loss of appetite, falling off of the hair, corns, &c. &c.,
when I was recommended to try the newly-discovered panacea; and, I am
happy to say, after two bottles of the stuff, I am perfectly recovered.
You are at liberty to make what use you think proper of this letter.

                        "Yours most obediently,

                                                               "F. FLAM.

"N.B.—None but the best French brandy will do, some very fine samples of
which are on hand at my Warehouse, No. 99¾, Gammon Street, Hoaxton."


                      FROM ANOTHER CORRESPONDENT.

"sur—i Take the libberty of adressing yew about the brandy & sawlt. i
was aflicted with dredfull lownes of sperits & rewmatism wich having
freely aplide the abuv has boath Disapeard. sir my way of Aplying is the
sawlt outside wonst a day & the brandy in twice evvery our. its effex is
sumtims realy Asstonishing. my wife allso takes the abuv Meddisin in her
tea, & finds grate bennifits.

                                     "sir yewr Most obediant
                                                       "TUMMMAS SPOONEY.

"P.S.—sir a neyber of min Tride the abuv on his wife bean Bad skalded
kiling a pig but Unlukky forgot to Put in the sawlt. owevver it was awl
Verry wel, for the brandy aloan Cured his wife & now he's got the Sawlt
to Cure his bakun."


                   ASSOCIATION OF BRITISH ILLUMINATI.

  [_The following Extracts from the Proceedings of this illustrious
    Body, at the Meeting of 1840, will be read, no doubt, with the
    interest they deserve._]

Some very curious statistical and general reports were made by Mr.
Colley Wobble, on the street refreshments of London. It appeared that
the proportion of baked potatoe receptacles, or, as they were commonly
termed, "hot tator cans," over kidney-pudding stalls, was as six to one.
Of these cans one in seven was surmounted with lamps; one in three had a
spare valve, to let off steam; and five out of nine used condensed
Dorset scrapings, averaging about fourpence per pound. The
kidney-pudding stalls appeared to confine their stations to the
neighbourhoods of the minor theatres, and he could trace the effect of
their nourishing principle in those thrilling and passionate outbursts,
which melodramatic actors threw into such phrases as—"It _is_ my
daughter!" "Begone, sir! and learn not to insult virtuous poverty;" and
the like class. Some of the stalls were embellished with singularly
curious transparent lanterns, representing theatrical subjects on their
four sides.

Mr. Bobbledabs inquired what species of light was burnt inside these
transparencies?

Mr. Colley Wobble defined it as produced by the combustion of
atmospheric air, acting on a half-consumed continuity of a twopenny
thick, set in argillaceous candlesticks. He was led to make these
observations from having perceived a hole burnt in the lantern, where
the candle had tumbled over. The learned gentleman added, in
continuation, that one of the most favourite exhibitions was "Kerim and
Sanballat fighting for a kidney-pudding, from Timour the Tartar." He had
likewise observed William Tell shooting a kidney-pudding from Albert's
head, and Mr. Stickney riding five kidney-puddings at once for a horse—
he meant to say—that is—the Association would know what he meant.

Mr. Snuffantupenny inquired if these piquant preparations were
expensive?

Mr. Colley Wobble estimated the general price at one penny each. When
purchased, the vendor made a hole in them with the nail of his little
finger, and poured in some warm compound, out of a blacking-bottle, with
a quill in the cork. The liquid had been analyzed by Mr. Faraway, and
was found to contain one part fat, one part furniture oil, two parts
infusion of melt, and sixteen parts of hot water, with dirt in solution.

Mr. Gambado then read a talented paper on "The imaginary barrier
precluding pickled whelks from the tables of the aristocracy;" and
having finished, he begged to propose a Committee of Inquiry—why boiled
crabs were sold at three a penny in Union Street, Middlesex Hospital,
when you might purchase four, for the same sum, on Kennington Common?

Mr. Bobbledabs trusted his talented friend would remember that
Kennington Common was nearer the sea-coast than Union Street.

Mr. Gambado sat corrected. While they were on the subject, however, he
wished to say a few words on the connexion supposed to exist between the
anatomical school of the said hospital—that was to say, the Middlesex—
and the number of shops for the sale of old bones and doctors' phials,
with which Union Street abounded; and why so many dissecting cases were
to be seen in the window of the pop-shop at the corner.

Dr. Corfe thought the reason was obvious. The scalpels hybernated with
the watches towards the end of November, and the students were thus,
unavoidably driven to use penknives for lancets, and the small ends of
tobacco-pipes for probes and blowpipes.



                                  THE
                             COMIC ALMANACK
                               FOR 1842.


                       BEFORE DINNER, AND AFTER.

      Guests were assembled—formal, prim, and staid—
        The conversation did not yet come pat in;
      The bachelor found speeches _ready made_,
        The _ready maid_ looked twice as hard as Latin;
      The lord was stiff—the lady half afraid
        To spoil her _silk_ dress with the chair she _sat in_!

      A dreadful dull demureness fill'd the place;
        _Room-attics_ might be caught on that _first-floor_;
      No _racy_ word from all the human _race_
        There gathered—nothing to create a roar—
      Weather and poetry their themes of grace—
        They talked of snow, and _Byron_,—nothing _Moore_.

      There broke no pun upon the startled ear—
        Nothing the soul of etiquette to smother;
      None were at home, but each on each did leer,
        As who should say, "You're out," and "Does your mother?"
      Their words were _dry_, and yet they did appear
        To _throw cold water upon one another_!

      They stood, or sat, like lumps of social stone,
        Their _wheel_ of life went round, yet _no one spoke_;
      Or, if they did, _not speeches from the thrown_
        From horse or gig, were more devoid of joke;
      The _little_ fire that, in the _grate_ had grown
        Dim, had a longing for a stir, or poke.

      The _hes_ were stupid, and, it might be said,
        The _shes_ were as un_easy_ as the _hes_:
      It was all _heavy_ there, and nothing _led_
        To anything, but minding Q's and P's;
      While every heart was absent, every head
        Ran upon "soup, fish, flesh, fowl, tart, and cheese."

      Nothing was _on the carpet_, when there came
        This bright announcement:—"_Dinner on the table!_"
      Then wagg'd the tongues, which soon began to frame
        A young confusion, like to bees, or Babel,
      And each face wore a smile, that quite became,
        Just as a doctor's bottle wears a label.

[Illustration:

  Before dinner and after.
]

         Dinner pass'd over—they were quite genteel;
           The wine went very fast and freely round;
         None vulgarly, that day, took _malt_ with _meal_,
           But still in _the best spirits_ all were found;
         As they sat at the table, they did feel
           As if their _soles_ would never touch the ground.

         The _cloth_ was _cut_, and the dessert was spread,
           Fresh bottles crown'd the hospitable board,
         Their jolly cheeks grew fast from _white_ to _red;_
           So pass'd the wine—their bark of life was _moor'd_
         Quite safe in _port_, while head did nod to head
           Familiar as the scabbard to the sword.

         Now grew the conversation fast to fruit,
           The fruit had grown already very fine;
         The _wine_ produced no _whining_, and, to boot;
           No epicure repined about the _pine_;
         But Love did all around his _arrows_ shoot,
           Lanced from his _beaux_ against the ladies fine.

         Each Miss's joke now made a pleasant hit,
           No lover's _sally_ could be deem'd _a miss_;
         Less stately, too, the dowagers did sit—
           They let their feelings loose on that and this;
         Their tongues, in fact, were _bridled_ not a _bit_—
           The prude would have said "thank ye" for a kiss.

         The guests gave out a host of best good things,
           By way of compliment to their good host;
         Brim full of eloquence, a friend upsprings,
           And hopes that he will always rule the roast
         The praises of the _belles_ another _rings_,
           And turns, at once, "the Ladies" to a toast.

         So freedom reigns; whereby it seemeth clear
           That people grow most cordial after dinner;
         Till then, the dearest woman seems less dear,
           The thinnest gentleman's thin wit grows thinner;
         The cheerful will be cheerless, without cheer—
           You must have meat and drink, as you're a sinner!

[Illustration]


                        THE GAIETIES OF TOM GAD.

                            I.

            Off goes Tom Gad, while John his lad
              Stands holding his nags so handy:
            Mary behind, with thoughtfulness kind
              Is there with a bottle of brandy.
            Master is going—(oh, how they'll be missing him
            When he's in London)—and Missus is kissing him!

                  *       *       *       *       *

10. King of Hanover claims some of the Crown Jewels of England.

         "To lose for want of asking is no joke!"
         'Twas just like _Ernest_, though _in jest_ he spoke.

20. West Middlesex Assurance bubble burst. Creditors in the suds.

         Like coining gold appear'd the plan, when new,
         But soon they found their _Mint_ was turn'd to _Rue_.

Short days.

                    Send prosers to pot,
                      Who are dry and statistical,
                    And rather drink egg-hot,
                      Than be eg-ot-istical.

                Tom's journey ended, begins his spree;
                Slap into the Bull and Mouth drives he.

[Illustration:

  Ringing a peal and Ringing a belle
]


                  RINGING A PEAL, AND RINGING A BELLE

    _Or, The Pippy Correspondence: a Diary of Love and Inundation._

                                   I.

                        _Mr. Pippy's Valentine._

This elegant production was painted on a sheet of paper with a lace
border, and presented a singular mixture of sentiment and improbability,
viz.—a little boy, in a species of undress which the police would
certainly prohibit from becoming the general fashion, riding in a car,
like an enormous periwinkle shell turned topsy-turvy, upon wheels, and
drawn by two pigeons—a proceeding of which every thinking mind must
admit the impracticability, since the atmospheric resistance of the
birds' wings could never afford sufficient fulcrum to draw so large a
vehicle with any momentum, especially with cowslip collars and rosebud
traces.—[See Proceed. of Chawturmut Lit. and Scien. Inst., p. 30.] A
church with a pointed spire and two windows was seen in the distance,
perfecting this tasteful composition of protestant mythology. At each
corner were intricate red loops, like mud-worms in convulsions, termed
true lovers' knots; and below were eight exquisite and novel lines, of
which we present the reader with the _termini_, leaving him to fill them
up as he pleases:—"heart—smart," "languish—anguish," "flame—name," "you
be mine—Valentine."

                                  II.

          _Miss Celia Potts to a confidential Female Friend._

 Oh, my dear Charlotte,

What _do_ you think? Mr. Pippy, the young apothecary, who came down here
to take our union of fourteen parishes at £20 a-year, has sent me a
Valentine. Not a common, impudent penny one of an old maid, with cats
and parrots all about her, but a beautiful picture of a little Cupid—
such a love!—riding in a thingemygig, drawn by two what-d'ye-call-'ems,
with—oh, my!—eight lovely verses underneath. I know it's from him,
because it's scented all over with the best Turkey rhubarb and oil of
peppermint, and I found a small piece of pill adhering to the envelope—
how a trifle betrays the secrets of the heart! My mind is all in a
titter-totter—do come and see me.

                                              Yours very sincerely,
                                                            CELIA POTTS.

 Chawturmut,
   Feb. 14.

                                  III.

                       _Mr. Pippy to Miss Potts._

 Adored Celia,

The auricles of my heart contract with accelerated circulation as I pen
these lines. I can no longer conceal that my love is as firmly fixed
upon you, as with a solution of gum-arabic. Are your affections free for
me? and may they be taken immediately, and repeated every four hours
with one of the powders?—alas! I scarce know what I write. I have
already directed a dozen draughts to the wrong people: one old lady has
swallowed half a pot of ringworm ointment, and Mrs. Jones has been
rubbing her little boy's head with lenitive electuary. You alone can
write the prescription that shall administer to my incertitude.

                                          Ever devotedly yours,
                                                          PHINEAS PIPPY.

                                  IV.

                _Miss Potts to the confidential Friend._

 My dearest Charlotte,

We have given a small party, and he has formally proposed. He was very
timid at first, but it was the red wine negus that did it, for Mamma
very kindly made it pretty strong, and gave him a good dose, immediately
upon my singing—"I'd marry him to-morrow." He says he has loved me "ever
since he first saw me at church in that beautiful cloak." My dear, it
was my old pelisse, which I had turned, made into a capucine, and lined
with blue Persian; but love gilds everything by its magic: possibly it
converted my last year's straw bonnet into a Tuscan chip. It is pouring
in torrents, and they say if it goes on we must have a flood. He is
sitting at his surgery window, looking at me, between the red and blue
bottles, with a spy-glass.

                                                      Yours ever,
                                                                  CELIA.

 Feb. 20.

                                   V.

                  _Mr. Pippy to his friend Mr. Tweak._

 My dear Tweak,

How uncertain is everything in this world! I was to have been married
to-day to the loveliest of her sex, but the floods have so risen, that
nothing but the roof of the church is visible. It began yesterday
morning, when the canal banks broke, and increased with such rapidity,
that I was compelled to spend the day on the dining-table, and am now
driven to the second floor, with no provision but a flask of lamp oil
and some tooth powder. The sick paupers of the Union I attend have just
arrived on a barge, which has got aground on the bridge. The
bell-ringers, also, who were practising in the belfry when the irruption
took place, are fast enclosed therein—the doors being under water, and
the windows too small to get out at. They are ringing for help, and the
sound is awfully painful, as it was to have been my bridal peal. A
letter has just been brought by Tom Johnson, in a mash-tub, from my
adored Celia; I hasten to read it.

                                                  Yours ever,
                                                          PHINEAS PIPPY.

 Feb. 23.

                                  VI.

                       _Miss Potts to Mr. Pippy._

 Dearest Phinny,

Do not, I implore you, think too much of Hero and Leander. Our rustic
Hellespont is far too cold for you to plunge into and swim across, and
such a proceeding might excite the gossip of our neighbours. Let us
endure this trial with patience. The waters are certainly abating, as
the French bed in our back room is now visible, and John has caught
three fine eels in the pillow-case, which I send you, as well as my pet
Carlo, who will swim back with any answer you may have to send.

                                         Yours very affectionately,
                                                            CELIA POTTS.

                                  VII.

                (_Extract from the Chawturmut Gazette._)

Married, on the 28th inst., Phineas Pippy, Esq., to Celia, daughter of
Anthony Potts, Esq. The ceremony, which was delayed by the late floods,
was performed as soon as the waters sufficiently fell—the party going to
the altar in a punt.

[Illustration]

[Illustration:

  Look out _below_—above a joke.
]

                                II.

              Tom Gad, a swell, in a town hotel,
                Is breakfasting like a king;
              Besides his proggery, lots of toggery
                Hatters and tailors bring;
              While John declares, he's blest if ever he
              Look'd so smart as he shall in his livery!

  14. Crockford cuts the cards, and throws up the game.

               When Crocky, after many rubs,
                 On gaming turn'd his back,
               'Twas just as though the king of _clubs_
                 Were shuffled from the pack.

[Illustration:

  "Not guilty, on my honour."
]

  16. Lord Cardigan's trial and acquittal.

  21. The Pennard Cheese.

            A mighty fuss about a mity cheese
            From _Zummerset_, Her Majesty to please;
            A wrong foundation sure its fame was built on,—
            So mighty high—it must have been a _Stilt-on_.

  26. Explosion of the great projectile in Essex.—Lots of calves
    frightened to death, all for the public _weal_.

  28. Conviction at Worship-street, for selling spurious T, which
    shows the necessiT of avoiding an uncertainT.


                         VALOUR AND DISCRETION:
                THE ANCIENT AND HONOURABLE LUMBER TROOP.

                   (_From their Private Despatches._)

It is at all times a pleasing task to chronicle heroic deeds, and we
hasten to immortalize the proceedings of this gallant body of veterans
during the past year. Amongst their most daring and successful attempts,
have been the taking possession of Eel Pie Island; the storming of the
baked apple-stand, at Temple Bar; the blockade of Bolt-court, and the
celebrated passage of the Paddington Canal, under the direction of
General Blackrag, the great city undertaker, to whom the attack was
entrusted, from his experience, as he himself stated, in marching at the
head of the _corps_. He was ably seconded by his usual auxiliary, Dr.
Bluelight, the former providing the _shells_, and the latter the
_mortars_, the combined effects of which produced terrific execution.
From the usual habits of the troop, it may readily be conceived that
_counter_ marching was the manœuvre at which they felt most at home; in
fact, the only idea they had of "a regular _march_," was the one between
February and April. During their encounters, they have given and taken
no quarter, except an occasional fore one of lamb; whilst their
undaunted courage was well shown in the speech of Ensign Miggins, who
declared "that he would never shrink from coming to the _pint_, even
against a rampart of _quartz_;" and his unshaken energy in bearing _the
standard_ was never known to _flag_, firm as its contemporary in
Cornhill. Their acknowledged love of card-playing having induced some
unpleasant gambling transactions, it has been resolved, by the head of
the members, to prevent all legs from bearing arms in their body; and a
late regulation orders the colour of their plumes to be a deep crimson,
not only as emblematical of blood and glory, but from its precluding the
possibility of any one, at any time, _showing a white feather_. It is
truly delightful to contemplate the harmony which reigns amongst them at
present; and it it somewhat remarkable, considering their aptitude for
_catches_ of all sorts, that they have made no prisoners. The only
approach to anything like discord in the troop, was upon the occasion of
the dispute relative to a contemplated attack upon Burgundy and Madeira;
but even this added to the general harmony, since, although the dinner
service was demolished in the contention, this one war was productive of
one hundred _peaces_; and it furthermore enabled the members to present
to their friends several unique _pieces of plate_, at a small outlay. We
are indebted to their laureate for the following—


                     WAR SONG OF THE LUMBER TROOP.

                Blow forth the clarion's pealing sound,
                  Your voices raise on high,
                And send the bottle quickly round,
                  To drink to victory;
                The campaign to the champagne yields.
                  The festive board invites,
                Extinguish every thought of care—
                  Blow out your very lights!

[Illustration:

  But glory is a kin' o' thing I shan't pursue no furder.—
  __BIRDOFREDOM SAWIN.__
]

              Our march in glory's bright career,
                All other troops surpasses;
              For, whilst they _charge their fellow men_,
                We only _charge our glasses_;
              No tears our conquests e'er await,
                Nor bier, with trappings sable,
              They—leave _their_ dead men on the field,
                We—_ours_, beneath the table!

              At _Waterloo_, a fearful game
                The _trumpet_ call began,
              At _three card loo_ we win our trick,
                And _trump it_—when we can:
              The _verdant bays_ the chaplet form,
                For which the warrior prays—
              A different game we strive to win,
                Not for, but on, _green baize_.

              The ranks that join in our _piquette_,
                By deep old _files_ are form'd;
              We keep no _watches_ but our own—
                Our posts are never storm'd;
              Our own _reviews_, in brilliancy,
                The "Quarterly" outshine;
              Our only _challenge_ is to take
                A glass of generous wine.

              And should we ever take the field,
                Our troops would be found _fast_;
              The _first_ might trust to our support,
                For sticking to the _last_;
              And ever, upon equal terms,
                Our enemies we'd meet,
              For, did they treat us with a ball,
                We would, in turn, retreat.


                             HIGH TREASON.

 March 16.
            The boy Jones found feasting in the larder at the
              palace.

             Why, what a scandalous piece of disloyalty,
             To want to be picking the mutton of royalty!

                                 III.

                Tom Gad, my eyes! to his own surprise,
                  Is learning how to dance;
                Wherever he goes, he'll point his toes
                  As gentlemen do in France:
                He'll be the pink of a London beau—
                Quite the fashion, and all the go!

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

  7. A wooden spoon presented by an old woman to the Queen.

      All the spoons of the nation soon made known their wishes,
      To be speedily plunged in Her Majesty's dishes;
      Yet 'twas found to be useless to take any more,
      For the spoonies at Court were too many before.

  14. Reported destruction of the Falls of Niagara.

            'Twas said that the Falls, with a terrible din,
              Had fall'n from their perch on high;
            But now it falls out that they ne'er fell in,
              And so 'twas a fals-i-ty.
            'Tis shocking to spread such news appallible,
            About these Falls, which are still infallible.

[Illustration:

  Ball practice. Finishing lesson.
]

[Illustration:

  High and Low Water
]


                          HIGH AND LOW WATER.
                    A LETTER OF THE LIONS OF LONDON.

     "_From a Young Lady in Town to her Friend in the Country._"

                                             POLITE LETTER WRITER.

    I know, my dear Ellen, you think me to blame
    For not writing once, since from Clumpsted I came;
    But, what with the whirl and confusion of town,
    I declare I have scarcely had time to sit down.

    We are now in "The Season;" by fashion's blest laws
    Always fix'd at this point of the twelvemonth, because
    To mope in the country's a terrible thing,
    With nothing to watch but the progress of Spring,
    As its cowslips and primroses burst from the ground,
    And nought but the chirps of the wood-birds resound.
    But how different London—one scene of delight!
    Sights and concerts by day, balls and operas by night.
    And we've all been _so_ happy, _so_ busy, _so_ gay,
    With one drawback alone—it has rain'd every day!

    You cannot conceive, if 'tis not pointed out,
    How quickly in London you travel about;
    So I'll tell you, all fabulous narratives scorning,
    The various places we saw _in one morning_!
    Our lodgings we left about half after nine,
    And, taking a coach, we drove off to the Shrine
    Of the Chapel at Bethlehem, whence we could glance
    At the fine church of Auch, which you know is in France.
    Next, into the famed Polytechnic we dropp'd,
    And there, a few minutes, at Canton we stopp'd;
    Then quitting this spot, with despatch just the same,
    By the _route_ of Pall Mall, into Syria we came
    At the Kineorama—a tour rather fleet,
    Since to Egypt you pass, without quitting your seat,
    From whose ancient relics, time-worn and corroded,
    We reach'd St. Jean d'Acre just as it exploded.

    (To make my accounts with localities tally,
    The fortress _I_ mean overlooks Cranbourne-alley.)
    And after we'd travell'd these scenes to explore,
    We got home to dine, at our lodgings, by four.

    We've attended the second interment of Boney;
    We've heard Sophie Loëwe, and seen Taglioni;
    Whilst Nisbett and Keeley, in _London Assurance_,
    Have kill'd us with laughter, beyond all endurance.

    With respect to Haitzinger and Stoeckel Heinefetter,
    We fearlessly state, we have heard many better