  PROJECTED LINES
TO RUN THROUGH ALL ALMANACKS. Moveable Feasts.—The greatest one on record is the Barmecide Feast of Sancho Panza. Fast-Days.—Greenwich Fair at Easter and Whitsuntide, the Derby, the Thames Regatta, balloon days at Cremorne, and masquerade mornings at Jullien's. Michaelmas Day.—Election of the Lord Mayor—Moses takes his measure, and rushes home to cut up the goose. Leap Year.—It takes three springs to make one leap year. Purification.—It is very curious that the very day after Candlemas should be the anniversary of a "Blaize." Holiday at Chance. Offices.—The English of Chance. is Chancery. Low Sunday.—Boating on the Thames, or riding in the Park on a hired horse. Old May Day.—An exiled Pole in England. Lent.—To ascertain its beginning and end, you have only to become security for a friend at a Loan Office. Bartholomew.—One of the reduced fairs. Christmas.—The Earl of A-db-r-gh presents all his servants with Christmas Boxes—of Holloway's pills. Old Lady-Day.—The only lady whose age is known to a day. THIS IS WHAT LADIES CALL A MINIATURE BROOCH!!! FASHIONS FOR 1849. The rage for flounces in ladies' dresses will grow deeper and deeper. Two noble Duchesses will compete as to the greater number. They will continue each time bidding one flounce over one another, till their dresses will be nothing but flounces. The fashion is evidently borrowed from the hackney-coachman's cape. PORTRAIT OF A LADY OF RANK AS SHE WILL APPEAR AT THE HORTICULTURAL FETE NEXT YEAR. Gentlemen's fashions will remain just the same, that is to say, as ugly as ever. A DREAM OF THE YEAR.
(AFTER PLANCHE'S "DÆDALUS.") 1848 I'm in such a flutter I scarcely can utter The words to my tongue that come dancing—come dancing I've had such a dream, that it really must seem To a telegraph e'en like romancing—romancing; I must have got frisky on Kinahan's whisky, Although I don't wish you to blab it—to blab it; Or else 'twas a question of slight indigestion, Through eating too much of Welsh rabbit—Welsh rabbit. I dreamt Lord John Russell was dining with Fussell, To meet Louis Blanc and Alboni—Alboni, When Feargus O'Connor declared, on his honour, He'd only had half a polony—polony. On which all the Chartists and Suffolk Street artists Ran off to the train and got in it—got in it, In spite of their fears of the new engineers, Who blew up a boiler a minute—a minute. On this, Ben Disraeli, who'd burnt the Old Bailey, Declined being paid for his trouble—his trouble; And ran in a funk to the Joss on the junk, To prove Schleswig-Holstein a bubble—a bubble. So BarbÉs and Blanqui both looked very cranky, Because Jenny Lind chose to marry-to marry; But Thackeray cried, "If you bother the bride, I'll wed her at once to John Parry—John Parry." I next had a row, I can scarcely tell how, With Van Amburgh for showing his lion—his lion, And stealing a sack from the widow Cormack, In which she had popp'd Smith O'Brien—O'Brien; When Soyer came up with a Summerley cup, Just purchased at Stowe for a shilling—a shilling, And told the inspector he'd give him some nectar, Provided they came to no killing—no killing. Then Anstey arose, and he took off his clothes, To prepare for a six months' oration—oration; When Monsieur Dumas said he was but an ass, To bathe in the Hyde Park stagnation—stagnation. On which hurry-scurry they flew in a hurry, To shut Mrs. Gore in the Tower—the Tower— With Juba and Pell, to amuse her as well, Whilst she wrote fifteen novels an hour—an hour. But Charles Dickens caught up a plate quick as thought, And made it spin round on his finger—his finger: Till Wellington came, and observing his game, Was afraid any longer to linger—to linger. So Gilbert A'Beckett swore he would soon check it, And drew up a statement confessing—confessing, That all he had done had been nothing but fun, So Wakley might give him his blessing—his blessing. I next heard a scream, and a whistle and gleam, A racketing noise and a humming—a humming; And then an increase of the railway police Proved Mr. G. Hudson was coming—was coming. As he aimed at my head I jumped clean out of bed, For I knew he would give me no quarter—no quarter; And a knock at the door as I fell on the floor Show'd the servant had brought my hot water—hot water. THE TERMINUS OF THE SOUTH-WESTERN RAILWAY A RAILWAY TRIP IN THE AUTUMN OF 1848 IN
SEARCH OF THE PICTURESQUE. It is not so easy to find the New Waterloo Terminus of the South-Western Railway, but, by dint of innumerable halfpence to innumerable little boys, and chartering several policemen, we found it at last. It is a good day's walk from Waterloo Bridge—that is to say, if you cross the river in the morning, you may reach it before the evening; even then you will require to have a guide, or else you will infallibly pass it without ever suspecting that tremendous high wall, with a lamp-post growing out of the top, is The architecture of the terminus partakes very largely of the impromptu Band-box Order. The offices must have been designed by the architect who ran up in one day the House of Commons Committee Rooms. You imagine innumerable floors must have been torn up, for all the works published at this office are bound in strong boards. However, they look very light and airy, though hardly adapted, we should say, to stand against a strong wind. It would be a curious sight to see, some day next March, a covey of railway offices winging their way down the Strand in the direction of Birdcage Walk. But the railway is whistling to us. Suppose we take a four-penny trip down the line to view the SPLENDID SCENERY FROM WATERLOO
BRIDGE TO NINE-ELMS. We believe there is nothing like it in the world, excepting the Blackwall line. We will jot down right and left the principal beauties that most enchant us on this picturesque little railway, which is certainly the most laconic line that was ever sent through the electric post by one company to another. We are sitting with our backs (though, by-the-bye, we have but one back) to the New Cut; the fertile district of Lambeth is on one side, the milky river on the other. We were quite taken aback with the immense forest of chimneys which the engine cuts through like so much brush wood; they seem to be the only vegetation of the place. It is easy to distinguish the chimneys that have been recently stacked from those of previous years' crops. A curious windmill, supposed to have attained the age of three hundred and twenty, meets the left eye. It is quite the Methuselah of windmills. Cockney artists come from far and near to ask it to give them a sitting. Your right eye will not fail to light up with the group of merry pipers that are sitting on the roof of the "Duke of Wellington." Their bright tankards sparkle in the sun, with which they moisten their respective clays. They present a pleasing picture of the happy peasantry of the suburbs. One laughing fellow presents his tankard to us, but we are obliged to refuse it, from the reason that the railway will not stop to allow us to take it. An immense volume of smoke from a supposed brewery, though the perfume from the brewery is not particularly hoppy, is at the present moment delivered to the public in numbers. The passenger, if he is wise, will shut his eyes, and not open them again till he sees that it has quite blown over. A magpie in a wicker cage, suspended from an attic window, is worth the passing sympathy of the third-class passenger. The first-class ditto can have no sympathy, from the obvious fact that he cannot see anything (Mem. To enjoy nature, there is nothing like the third-class; to enjoy a good snooze, there is nothing like the first.) We do not envy that poor magpie, with the engine rushing by him all day long. See how he crouches into the corner of his prison! And hark! he has learnt the railway whistle. Wretched bird! thou canst not have a pleasant life of it. How willingly, methinks, thou wouldst hop the twig, if thou couldst! But what is that? It looks like a large game of scratch-cradle—but no, it isn't—it is merely the top of a gas factory. We wonder if they take off the lids of those immense black cauldrons, when they want to see how the pot boils? Behold how contentedly that man is smoking his pipe, with his bare arms resting on the parapet of the railway, as if it were a cushion. The train rushes screaming by him, but not an eye winks, not a nerve shakes. The pipe still hangs from the lips of that iron man—well adapted to live so close and be, a railway sleeper. By-the-bye, it cannot be pleasant to have an engine almost touching your bedroom window whilst you are shaving! Look to your right, you will see the Houses of Parliament, the Barrycade of Westminster that has now been up for six years, and likely to remain up for thirty more. The bird you see on the top is a crane. It is sacred hereabouts, and is highway robbery if any one attempts to dislodge it. The Thames is worth looking at; but you must be quick, for unless you look down that narrow street before the train passes it, you will not see it. The silver speck—like a half-crown—you see at the end of that lane is the Thames. Turn quick to the left; you will perceive what an Englishman most delights in—a fight. Bah! you're too late; the Policeman has emerged from some invisible spot, and the fight is adjourned. One man in blue disperses five hundred Britons. You will see plenty of English Interiors on each side of the country. They display all varieties of paper, mostly at a halfpenny a yard. How desolate the fireplaces look, and yet they are interesting, as the last abiding-places of the grate must always be. How ferocious those chimneys look!—they give you quite a turn. Hurrah! now we approach Vauxhall! At night you can see the fireworks for nothing. Sometimes they drop in also upon you. A Roman wheel occasionally visits the first-class carriage, when he proves a very troublesome visitor, and which no one likes to turn out. The sticks—the departed ghosts of the short-lived rockets—think nothing of falling down upon the third-class passengers. But in the day-time you have nothing of these entertainments. All you see is the shell of the pagoda peeping through the trees, or an artist busy in veneering ham for the sandwiches; or you may get a small view of the airy abode of Il Diavolo, who led such a wire-drawn existence. Holla! there's a cab coming over Vauxhall Bridge, and a steamer going underneath it. The horse still carries it over steam occasionally. Now, you have reached the Vauxhall terminus. But which is the way out? There, down that trap. Why, it looks like the cabin of a steamer; but it isn't. Venture down it—it only takes you into the cellar, for the passengers at this station are shot out through a dry arch. But this species of exit—underhand as it is—is not half so perplexing as the one at Waterloo Bridge—as they will persist in calling the terminus—though never were Directors so far out in their calculations. Here, as you rush in a hurry to discover the exit, you are stopped by the following directions:— THE WAY OUT Well, how have you enjoyed your trip? Only consider the variegated landscape, the picturesque scenery, the wonderful insight into the domestic habits of the natives, which you have just enjoyed in your delightful little trip of three minutes' rapid flight over roof and chimneys, from Waterloo Bridge to Nine Elms. If you are a real lover of nature, you will never forget it as long as you live. RAILWAY PORTRAITS, TAKEN AT THE RATE OF FIFTY MILES AN HOUR. EMIGRATION CARRIED TO AN ABSURD EXTENT,
OR, WIDDICOMBE SITTING AMONGST THE RUINS OF LONDON.
An Asylum for Stranded Passengers.—The Lowther Arcade has been called the Gents' Umbrella. Might it not also be called the Ladies' Parasol? THE HAUNT OF THE REINDEER. THE SYREN AND THE PHILOSOPHER.
A MARINE DUET. Syren. Here beneath the deep blue waters Where the sea-plants twist and curl, And the ocean's loveliest daughters Dwell in palaces of pearl, Come unto me. I've a notion That for those of mortal birth Fairer far must be the ocean Than the dry and stupid earth. Phil. No, fair Peri; I have lectured On each scientific theme, And propounded, and conjectured— Showed the air-pump, gas, and steam. But, to make my story shorter, I was taught, e'en in my teens, When the nose is under water Suffocation supervenes. Syren. Golden halls with diamonds dusted Shall rejoice thy wondering eyes. Phil. No, with barnacles encrusted, There each foundered treasure lies. Syren. Every costly jewel twinkles In the ocean's caverns green. Phil. No, there's naught but weeds and winkles On those rocks that I have seen. Syren. Daintiest food, my mortal lover, I will bring thee with this hand. Phil. No, I fear I should discover 'Midst the viands too much sand. Syren. I will love thee well and dearly, Sing thee songs of music rare. Phil. No, acoustics prove most clearly Sound exists alone in air. Syren. Sea-born nymphs shall serve your table— Syrens of the fairest mien. Phil. I assure you 'tis a fable, Mermaids yet have ne'er been seen. One there was in Piccadilly, Half a fish, and half an ape; You must think me very silly To believe in such a shape. Syren. Horrid science! ever giving Negatives to fancies fair; Yet, if I can't have thee living— Dead, my kingdom you shall share. I will raise the waters o'er thee; See, they rise! you have no boat. Phil. But I swim away before thee, Furnished with a Patent Float! A Little Difference between Them. Bagman (with his bill). "I say, waiter, haven't you charged me as a gentleman?" Waiter. "Oh! no,—as a commercial traveller, sir."
To Describe a Circle Round a Given Point.—Get into a cab, and order the driver to take you to the Bank of England.
How to See Jenny Lind's Portrait.—Visit an affected mother; let the subject of your conversation be the Opera, and she is sure to introduce one of her daughters who is universally acknowledged to be the "exact picture of Jenny Lind." INCREDIBLE TESTIMONIAL. THE EARL OF OLDBUFFOUGH'S DAUGHTER'S DOLL CURED BY THE USE OF HOLLOWAY'S OINTMENT, ROWLAND'S KALYDOR AND MACASSAR, GRIMSTONE'S EYE SNUFF, PARR'S LIFE PILLS, STOLBERG'S VOICE LOZENGES, ETC. MORRISON'S PILLS—A GREAT REDUCTION ON TAKING a QUANTITY. Extract from an interesting Letter from Lady Amelia (the lovely Daughter of the venerable Earl of Oldbuffough) to her Cousin, Lady Araminta Lamb. "Naples, 9th of October, 1848. "My Dearest, Dearest, Dearest, ever Fondest Araminta,—On my arrival here I was so sorry to learn that my darling doll had been thrown out of the carriage, and sadly hurt by the fall; but I must tell you, first of all, she had been terribly upset by the shaking of the steam-vessel, for she tumbled out of her berth, and it was a thousand mercies she was not smashed into a thousand pieces. As it was, the shock was too much for her delicate nerves, and she was laid up for a month in a drawer. Her beautiful ringlets (auburn, you will recollect) all fell off. Her lovely complexion had completely gone from dropping into the sea, and her pretty eyelids, once so quick, would neither open nor shut, though I tried pins and everything I could think of to make her open them. Oh, Araminta darling, believe me when I assure you I was tossed about so madly that I was completely bouleversÉ. "I was quite distracted with the fearful change. I called in the assistance of the most experienced Italian doll-makers, but their remedies were unavailing. My little pet gradually got worse, when mamma's French maid, Smith, persuaded me to apply to my sister's toilet-table for restoratives. After several applications of Macassar Oil to her bald head, I cannot tell you how delighted I was to perceive the hair beginning to grow again. I jumped for joy. I was quite a little mad thing for the space of ten minutes! But I persevered, and now (thanks be to that sweet Rowland) her ringlets are just as beautiful as ever, with this slight difference, that they are now jet black instead of the light auburn they formerly were. The little dear looks all the better for the change of hair. Still its complexion was so very bad, I did not like to take her out with me into society at all. Smith again, like a good creature, recommended me to try some of Rowland's Kalydor. I did. I washed the darling's face with it every morning for a week, and you will scarcely believe it, but it is no story, when I assure you that my doll has quite resumed her pristine bloom, and is now as pure and as lovely as ever. But her eyes pained me the most, so I made bold to ask Sir John Sheepshanks, who never travels without Holloway's Ointment, to oblige me with a little bit. He gave me as much as would cover your tongue, and, before putting her to bed, I placed it over her eyelids, and the next morning gave her a good pinch of Grimstone's Eye Snuff, when, upon pulling the strings, will you credit me on my word, my dearest Araminta, when I inform you that her eyelids opened and shut just as well as when my dear papa gave me the beautiful doll on my birthday. I was going to give her a small box (price 11s.) of Parr's Life Pills, but Smith assured me she would probably come alive, and I was frightened, as we have no nurserymaid here to attend to her. My doll is now quite a new creature, and I should advise you, Minta dearest, to try the same remedies, if ever you find yours looking faint, or losing her colour, or growing old. "Toute À toi, mia amica cara Minta, "Amelia. "I forgot to tell you, that my sweet pet also lost her voice from catching cold rather late one night at the Opera. I gave her half a dozen of Stolberg's Voice Lozenges, and now she says 'Pa' and 'Ma' more distinctly than ever. You recollect, too, her voice was a deep baritone. It has changed to the most beautiful falsetto! Isn't it wonderful?" HOW STARS ARE DISCOVERED. Mons. Arago says:—"Talking of the new fashion of discovering stars:—there's my friend Millevoye, who wrote to me post-haste one morning to say, he had just discovered two new stars! Now, one star is enough at any time, but two were so surprising in my eyes, that I rushed to him immediately to see if there was anything in them. 'Come, my dear Millevoye,' I said, 'can you look me in the face and say you have discovered two new stars?' 'I can,' he said boldly, and he turned his eyes full upon mine. The absurdity of the thing flashed so ridiculously upon me that I could not help laughing—the double discovery was at once apparent—for the poor fellow squinted. Take my word, never believe in a new star till you have seen it yourself." HISTORICAL PORTRAIT OF IRONSIDES. ASTLEY'S HISTORICAL QUESTIONS. Many of us owe to a visit to Astley's our earliest initiation into the mysteries of histories; and we are of opinion that a set of questions should be framed in accordance with these grand dog-mata—or horse-mata, as a maliciously-disposed person might call them—which we have gleaned from the boards of that great equestrian establishment. The arena of the circus is not a mere desert of sand or sawdust to him who looks at it with an intelligent eye, for many a wise saw may be picked up from the aforesaid sawdust, if the eye itself does not disdain the humility of the pupil. We subjoin a few specimens of the sort of questions and answers that would be found to meet the case, if we looked at history through some of Astley's grand spectacles. Q. How was the battle of Waterloo decided? A. By six Scotch Greys popping out from under two trusses of straw beautifully divided into six, and representing about half a pint of "standing corn," from which the gallant fellows emerged in time to "discomfit" eight French cuirassiers, who retired before the battery of the flats of the enemy's swords upon their highly polished breast-plates. Q. How did Napoleon succeed in crossing the Alps? A. He was carried across in an open boat on the backs of four supernumeraries. Q. In what manner did the Emperor travel to Russia? A. In a pasteboard hackney-coach, gorgeously emblazoned with Dutch metal, and which had been discovered among the rich relics of barbarism used for the old melodrama of Xaia of China. Q. How did the Duke of Wellington behave at Waterloo? A. He never spoke a single word, but pranced about, looking unutterable things, on a piebald charger. Q. To what are our successes in India attributable? A. To Lady Sale having surmounted an extensive range of platforms on a highly trained steed, and called upon "the whole strength of the company, with a numerous train of auxiliaries," to "advance for the honour of Old England," while the band in the orchestra played "Rule Britannia." Q. Mention some prominent points connected with the burning of Moscow? A. There were several terrific bangs, which had the effect of throwing a red glare over the whole scene; and several of the public buildings fell like the flap of a dining-table, showing underneath a very ruinous state of things; while the inhabitants appeared to be indulging themselves in letting off squibs and crackers into the air for the purpose of heightening the horrors of the conflagration. Q. What became of Napoleon's trusty Mameluke? A. On the last occasion that he took a part in public affairs he was recognised as a baker who had been just pillaged and pummelled by the clown in a pantomime. Q. State some of the most striking peculiarities of the late Emperor Napoleon? A. He chiefly depended for his advice on the "ferry-man" of his army; he took immense quantities of "property" snuff from a "practicable" snuff-box; he granted long interviews to "females in distress," and finished every alternate speech he made by declaring himself "the son of destinie." APOLLO ARRESTED BY A WRIT. It was said of a certain officer of a certain sheriff, "nihil tetigit quod non ornavit," which means that it was really an honour to receive a tap on the shoulder at his hands, and we have no doubt that even a writ would have acquired from his peculiar touch a grace and a dignity. We know there is nothing that may not be elevated by poetry, and we have endeavoured therefore to force the Muses into the service of a writ for the purpose of investing it with a new charm, and giving it what it ought to possess—a taking character, in place of the old prosaic form, which is repulsive rather than attractive, and instead of enabling every one who runs to read, causes every one who reads to run. We would throw it into verse, and, by giving it poetical feet, place it on quite a new footing:— Oh, come to me where Denman sits. Victoria unto thee Sends greeting, from her store of writs, The one which now you see. Within eight days we do command (I'll own the time is short), At Westminster, you'll understand, You must appear in court. It is an action on the case At Laura Thomson's suit— Her claims, if you have got the face, Come forward and dispute. Take notice, also, by the way, If this you fail to do, The aforesaid Laura Thomson may Appearance make for you; And then to judgment proceed, With execution straight. My friendly counsel prithee heed, And thus avoid your fate. Thomas, Lord Denman, you I call Witness, of learning sober, At Westminster's historic hall, This first day of October. But if, ere four brief days have fled, The debt and costs be paid, No further you'll by law be bled— Proceedings will be stay'd. CONSCIENCE MONEY. "A FAST man, who acknowledges having read the 'Comic Almanack' of last year through the shop-windows, and is ashamed now of the petty meanness, begs to forward to the Editor, as conscience money, the sum of One Shilling. The halves of six blue postage-stamps are now enclosed, and the remaining halves will be forwarded as soon as the first are acknowledged." [The above have been duly handed over to Mr. Bogue, who has generously paid the amount into the Poor-box for the Relief of Distressed Jokers—a most deserving charity.—Ed. C. A.] THINGS THAT ARE INDISPENSABLE FOR A
GENTLEMAN'S POCKET. Advertisers seem to imagine that a gentleman's pocket is as capacious as a kangaroo's—everything is for the pocket. We subjoin a few that will go to the bosom of every gentleman, especially those who have carried them—as the pressure of so many articles must have been rather inconvenient, if carried in the waistcoat pocket. Pocket-comb. Pocket Shakspeare. Pocket Map. Pocket Case of Instruments. Pocket Sandwich-box. Pocket Cab and Hackney-coach Fares. Pocket Guide. Pocket Dictionary. Pocket Classics. Pocket Dressing-case. Pocket Life-preserver. Pocket Constable's Staff. Pocket Respirator, &c., &c. to say nothing of innumerable Pocket-Books and Pocket Pistols, the latter of which, we think, a gentleman had better be without. To contain all the above articles, a gentleman's pocket need be as large, and packed as close, as a pocket of hops. We shall be having Houses for the Pocket next! and, who knows, a Pocket Railway? THE GAME OF FRIGHT. This round game has been played very extensively in France and other countries this year. In some circles the king has been thrown out and all the honours put aside, which has increased the fright to a very great extent, as it was always doubtful what low card would be the next turn up. Hitherto the clubs have been uppermost, and the knaves have shared all the spoil; but people are just beginning to see through the game, and are calling for a fresh pack; so we hope there will soon be an end to fright. A POCKET-BOOK PICKED UP IN THE GREAT
DESERT.
(SUPPOSED TO HAVE BELONGED TO A FASHIONABLE TOURIST.) The Great Desert is only solitary confinement applied to travelling. If you wish to know yourself, travel by yourself; and, egad! you will never wish to renew the intimacy. I can't make out the Sphinx; but I suppose it must have been the first likeness taken in stone. If the Egyptians could not make better riddles than that, they were perfectly right in never trying their hands upon another. They say this place is very romantic; but, on my word, I cannot see it, and I have looked everywhere. If there be a romance, it can only be a flying volume of Sand. I recollect my eyes filling several times, and certainly I cried once till I was nearly blinded; but on the whole I prefer the Waverly Novels. If the Pyramids had been in Paris, they would have been broken long ago for barricades. We are strange creatures; we leave London because it is empty, and come to the Great Desert for a change; for myself, I like London best; there may not be a soul, but you can get a sherry-cobbler, and there is the waiter at all events to speak to. What is Society? Running away from one's self; but here you only run to meet yourself. You might as well turn hermit, or toll-man on Southwark Bridge. I have met with but one sign of civilization since I have been here, and that was an empty soda-water bottle off Cairo! I cannot see the fun of climbing up that Great Pyramid. It is immense labour, and, like an election, is attended with bribery and corruption at every step, for you have to pay those greedy Moors before they will give you a hand, or the smallest lift. I could not help shouting out, as I saw a big fat alderman-looking fellow going up, "Twopence, Moor, and up goes the donkey!" It was very vulgar, but I could not help it. It is time that those forty centuries were relieved. I know of but one man to do it, and that's Widdicombe. I am certain solitude begets contempt. If I were to stop here another day I should positively hate myself. I had the bump of travelling, but have quite lost it now, after travelling for a week on a camel. Stupid people express their astonishment at the quantity of stones collected by the Egyptians to build the Pyramids, and never bestow the smallest wonder at the immense collection of dust; and yet the one is just as wonderful as the other, and, I am sure, much more difficult to get over. Decidedly travelling in the plains of Egypt will never be comfortable till they introduce watering-carts. If you wish to ascertain how slowly the sand of human life trickles through the minute glass, go to the Great Desert. But I suppose "what must be, must;" in other words, as the Duke of Bedford would say, "Che Sahara, Sahara." But the proverb is rather musty. I wonder they do not lay down a railway here. No elevations required, no tunnels excepting through the Needles, and Obelisks, and Tombs; everything is as smooth as a billiard-table; it looks as if it had been laid down on purpose, ready ruled for a series of lines. One thing, however, is very plain, and that is, they do not catch me in the Great Desert again until there is a railway! Cheapside at four o'clock, Gower Street on a Sunday, the Ancient Concerts, a Jury-box in the dog-days, a pantomime in July, a Blue-book on a wet Sunday—anything, confound it! is better than this Great Desert. On my word, I never saw, since I have travelled, a place with so little in it. "Here, Bou Maza, bring my camel to the door. I'm off to London."
Unpublished Dogma of Doctor Johnson.—"The man who wears a moustache has no right to eat vermicelli soup." CAPITAL OFFENDERS A woman who says "my love," and "my dear," and "my pet sweet," to her husband in public, and pulls his hair, probably, in private. A young man who is studying statistics, and tells you "the number of quarters of bonded corn there were in Hamburgh in 1835 was 10,000 more than any other year," and quotes voluminously about refined tallows and prime Muscovados from A woman of great intellect, and a young lady at supper who wishes to go into a convent. A man who is perpetually boasting of his "favourite old port that has been these fifteen years in bottle," and gives you nothing but British brandy. A woman of fifty years of age who dresses like a girl of nineteen. A woman who drops her pocket-handkerchief every five minutes at an evening party, in order to test the gallantry of the gentlemen. A man who gives a dinner party, and keeps saying to his guests, "You see your dinner, gentlemen." A woman who is always talking about her "delicate constitution." An old maid who doubts, during dessert, "if you could love madly," and then asks, "What is your beau ideal of the tender passion?" A young man who quotes Latin at a social party, and proposes healths and toasts; or a German at the Opera who hums all the tunes, overture, and recitatives, stamps his feet, and takes snuff. A faded coxcomb who talks of his successes with "the dear creatures." An old fellow who is always recollecting a "capital thing he heard five-and-twenty years ago." An old play-goer who will insist "we haven't a single actor left," and then tells you, "You should have seen Dicky Suett." "A man who has seen better days," and will recollect the time he had "thirteen different sorts of wine on his table, and kept his mare and French cook, but no one cares that for him now"—the that being a snap of the fingers. AN EXTENSIVE ORDER. TO Spacious Gentleman.—"Will you have the kindness, young man, to measure me for a pair of those at 12s.?"] WHAT DO ALL ENGLISHMEN TAKE OFF THEIR
HATS TO?[8] Who is it that gets the most salutes in England? We do not mean the powder which is thundered into the Queen's ears wherever she goes, but the quiet salute which a person makes by taking his hat off. Now, every Englishman dislikes taking his hat off. It is a trouble, and no genuine John Bull likes more trouble than he can help. It must be something, then, of very great importance—of general love and feeling—a chord that strikes all Englishmen's hearts—that makes everybody, without a single exception, take his hat off to it? What can it be? Is it Prince Albert? No; for, familiar as the prints of His Royal Highness may have made his handsome face in the eyes of those who look into print shops, still, from love of retirement, he is not generally known by the public, and he could easily pass down Lowther Arcade without fear of being recognised. Who is it, then? Is it the Duke of Wellington? No. It is true he commands a number of upraised hats. All those who know his venerable nose, and know how much England is indebted to it, pay him that little mark of respect. But, popular as the Duke is, every one is not acquainted with him, and there are even a few who still nourish a dislike of his political opinions, forgetting the best part, and only recollecting the worst part, of the man. A GOOD PARTY CRY. Can it be a creditor? Certainly not; for debtors always make a practice of avoiding their creditors, especially those of a large amount, or one of the Hebrew persuasion. There may be a few who get a stray lift of the chapeau, by way of reconciliation, but in general the eyes of him that owes rarely meet the eyes of him to whom money is owing. We are all blind to our own interest, especially when we pay 10 per cent. for it. Perhaps it is the wind? Now, this is a vile quibble; for the reader knows well enough that no man takes off his hat to the wind. On the contrary, the whole energy of a man's ten fingers is concentrated on the rebellious rim, with the view of holding the fugitive castor on. The wind takes off many hats; it is repeatedly done on Waterloo Bridge, and round the corner of St. Paul's Churchyard—you will see it any day during March; but it is preposterous to say that a single hat is ever taken off to the wind. Well, then, what is it? Patience for ten lines, and you shall know. Growl, amiable reader, but read. It is, you must know, a curious instrument, or rather a collection of instruments, that go at once to the bosoms of all Englishmen. It subdues discord, and substitutes pleasant harmony for it. No sooner is a note of it heard than off flies every hat, the whole assembly rises; fifty thousand bare heads—if there are so many present—instantly respect the majesty of the appeal, and fifty thousand voices—if you can only count them—join in glad response to it. But what is it? Foreigners even respect it, and take off their hats. Once more—What is it? Well, that which has most hats taken off to it, is— Stop! I have it (cries a young musician, who had the signal honour of beating the big drum in the Drury Lane orchestra on the stormy nights of Monte Christo): It's— Be quiet, sir. It's no such thing. Learn, young man, that you've no right to rob any one of his secret. Sit down, sir, and allow us to say— Well, then, say it, and be— Hush—breathe not a word that may be offensive to We were just going to say, if you had not interrupted us, that that which has more hats taken off than anything else is—is—is— Is what? Is God Save the Queen! And this proves that we English are the most loyal people in the world—at least as far as hats go. But who can tell whether the reason why the tremendous shower of revolutions, which have fallen this year as thick as hail all over the Continent, have done such little injury in England, is simply because our beloved country is deeply insured in every office, farm, mansion, cottage, in every English heart, by the loyal policy of God Save the Queen? So, "Hats off!" and let us all sing— "May she defend our laws, And ever give us cause To sing, with heart and applause, God Save the Queen!" T FraternitÉ, EgalitÉ, LibertÉ—d'AprÈs la Republique Rouge. SQUIBS IN STATUES. The newspapers make no mention of a statue that was forwarded to the Beaux Arts at the late competition, for the best design upon the Republique. It was a likeness of the Siamese Twins, who are supposed to have sent their adhesion to the French Government. It was meant to typify FraternitÉ and EgalitÉ, but was objected to as being too figurative. The artist altered the attitudes and sent it again; saying he had made the statue literal enough this time, and that his correction enabled him fortunately to include LibertÉ, in addition to the other two types of the Red Republicans. Upon being exhibited, it was found that he had made the Twins fighting in the most fraternal fashion. The result of the LibertÉ was, that the artist was immediately carried off to prison, for such designs upon the Republique could not be possibly winked at. VALUABLE ADVICE. To Persons about to Marry.—Don't buy your furniture at Felix Summerley's Cheap Art-Manufacture Mart. The above advice is given to young couples about to plunge into the deep waters of matrimony—that awful plunge which is to determine whether their future happiness is to go on swimmingly, or to sink for ever like the TÉlÉmaque, with all its fabulous treasures on board, when nothing is saved from the wreck excepting a few spars. That long voyage, however, which ends only with the loss of one of the mates, is generally never undertaken but with the strictest economy. The speculation may turn out a bad one; things may be thrown overboard from distress that swallowed up, before sailing, a little ocean of money, but they are usually selected with care, and nothing is shipped but what will fetch in the end almost as much as it cost at first. A mother—that most thrifty shipper in the harbour of life—generally lays in the cargo, and every article is weighed to a scruple in the scales of her judgment, before it is sent home to make the anxious passage to the United States. An Interrupted English Dinner Party at Paris.
"Mourir pour la Patrie." We can imagine a fond but imprudent couple going to Felix Summerley's beautiful Emporium of Art-Manufactures. They have no more money than they can spare, but the husband has an eye for the beautiful, and the wife likes—and where is the woman that doesn't?—to have everything of the best. They are tossed about on the beautiful carpets and lovely counterpanes, quite dazzled with the glittering warming-pans, inflamed with the glowing coal-scuttles of every possible age and period, whilst each bright poker they touch burns them to buy it. They go on hopping from one easy chair to another, now dwelling on a carved Artevelde sofa, now conversing with a Gothic dumb-waiter, dumbfounded the next minute by the sweetest causeuse of the middle ages, till they come to a lovely bedstead, where they pause and linger in speechless admiration. At last exclaims the enraptured— Emma. "Oh, how lovely! Look, Edwin, dear, how beautiful it is decorated!" Edwin. "Yes! but they might have selected some better subject. It would not be very pleasant, I imagine, to wake up in the middle of the night and see people killing one another before your sleepy eyes. But it's wonderfully painted to be sure. That man with the sword through him is quite a bit of real life. However, King John is of a more peaceful nature. Send the latter home, if you please." Shopman. "Allow me to call your attention to this wonderful blind. It is painted by Corbould. The subject is 'Richard going to Palestine.'" Emma. "I never saw anything like it. Isn't it charming, Edwin, darling? It would do very well for the back window of the pink bedroom—you know there's the chimney of the gas-factory, and the preparatory school for boys just opposite." Edwin. "Precisely so, dear. Put it with the other things." Emma. "Oh, what dear funny chairs." Shopman. "They're the latest discovery in Gothic manufactures; copied from a rare hieroglyphic on the tomb of Cheops. The Earl of Peckham has six dozen exactly similar." Edwin. "Very peculiar—they will do for the hall. What is this, pray? It looks like a cross between an altar and a sideboard." Shopman. "Excuse me, sir, that is a washing-stand—the only one of the kind. It was made for the Grand Duke Skrubisknosklenoff, but his lamented death has left it on our hands. We can let you have it a great bargain." Emma (ecstatically). "Oh, darling Edwin, do have it, dear." Shopman. "Thank you, sir. Here is a dressing-table, madam, that will just match with it. It was made from a design of Lord Waltzaghane, one of the first masters in point of art of the Young England School, and is universally admired. May I include it with the other articles, sir? I'm sure you'll like it." Edwin. "Very well, then; but that's enough. Come away, Emmy." Emma. "Oh, stop one minute—look here—did you ever? Isn't it elegant? What is it, pray?" Shopman. "Why, ma'am, that is a clothes-horse, made from a drawing of Edwin Landseer's. Prince Albert has the companion to it." Emma. "Oh, do buy it, Edwin; I wont ask you for anything else, indeed." Edwin. "Very well, then; but mind, it's to be the last." They take arms, and are about to leave the tempting shop, when Emma's attention is suddenly drawn by a curious mug, at which she cannot help laughing. Emma. "Oh! what is this, pray?" Shopman. "That, madam, is a teapot, designed after a popular pattern, very generally known amongst the Ethiopians under the name of the 'blackman's teapot.' It is universally admired." Edwin. "I think it very ugly." Emma. "How can you, Edwin! Why, I think it so very distinguÉ. I must have it; do buy it, there's a dear." Edwin. "Now, come along, darling—I'm in a hurry." Emma. "Well, if you wont, I will—I'll buy it myself, and make you a present of it, Edwin." Edwin. "Psha! that's nonsense, child." Edwin and Emma leave at last, and after dinner, when they are happy in assuring each other for the ten thousandth time that "they never knew what love was before," the new purchases arrive, and the bill is brought in. The future husband reads out the following bill | £ | s. | d. | | | To a beautiful historical Louis Quatorze French bedstead, designed by Chalon (very cheap) | 35 | 0 | 0 | | | To one Egyptian clothes-horse, the favourite design of Edwin Landseer | 15 | 10 | 0 | | | To one "blackman's teapot," in the very best superfine wedgwood (a rich curiosity) | 7 | 2 | 4½ | | | To a magnificent blind—a pure Corbould | 40 | 10 | 0 | | | To six Gothic Swan-of-Avon Egyptian chairs | 60 | 0 | 0 | | | To one Stonehenge dressing-table | 26 | 11 | 2 | | | To one Grecian washing-stand (a decided bargain). | 102 | 0 | 0 | | ———— | ———— | ———— | | Sum total | £286 | 13 | 6½ | We need not repeat the lady's fierce commentaries, or the gentleman's running fire of explosive criticisms upon the various items of the above little bill. Suffice it to say, the art-manufacture goods were returned, and Edwin and Emma bought at an auction the next day articles that suited their purpose just as well for 12l. 14s. They admitted the superior beauty of Mr. Felix Summerley's Art-Manufactures, but the expense, they both agreed, was "quite preposterous." Edwin and Emma are married now, and are still of the same opinion, so we cannot help thinking that they must have been in the right. The fine-art manufactures are certainly very beautiful, but there is moderation even in purchasing one of the earliest efforts of Teniers. PLAY-BILL DIALOGUES. The play-bills have got into the habit of asking questions. We should not be surprised to see the other play-bills answering them, in this way. Adelphi. "Did you ever send your wife to Camberwell?" Queen's. "Well, I can't say that ever I did, but I'll make a point of asking her the first time I see her." Haymarket. "Lend me five shillings?" Victoria. "My dear fellow, I only wish you may get it." Covent Garden. "What will the world say?" Surrey. "Ri tol de riddle lol, riddle lol de lay." Lyceum. "Which Mr. Smith?" Norton Folgate. "Whichever you like, my little dear." Douglas Jerrold. "Time works wonders." Paul Bedford. "I believe you, my b-o-o-o-o-oy." EDUCATION ON THE "MUTUAL ADVANTAGE"
SYSTEM. Pedagogue (who gives Food for the Mind for Food for the Body). "I tell you what it is, young Suett. It is not the first time your father has sent me bad mutton, and while he sends me such a bad leg as he has done now for three days running, I'm not going to tell you whether Constantinople is the capital of Otaheite or not." MAKE A WORSE ONE IF YOU CAN. Q. When is a landlord an insect tamer? A. When he has ten-ants at will. PRETTY LITTLE PUZZLES TO PUZZLE PRETTY
LITTLE PUZZLERS. (A number of the "Comic," with the Editor's Autograph, in red ink, will be given to any one who finds the solution of these puzzles.) Thomson, who is a clerk in the Bank, gives his wife permission to spend the day with a dear friend at Camberwell. At six he comes home to dinner, and they bring him up Can you find out how Thomson is to make a dinner of it?
Monsieur le Marquis de Clichy, on his arrival at Leicester Square, has an order for the Opera given to him. On looking over his wardrobe, he finds all his stock of linen to consist of X AND Y whilst his chaussure is on the following footing:— Z How ever is it possible for Monsieur le Marquis to go to the Opera as a gentleman?
L, who is an excellent swimmer, goes to Paddington one beautiful warm summer's evening for a refreshing dip in the canal. He leaves on the shore B Whilst he is enjoying himself in the limpid stream, B are carried off by P AND Q who leave L as they find him. L How, in the name of goodness, is L to get home?
Little Tommy and Harry (H, T) have a penny given to them each by their kind papa, to go and enjoy themselves at the fair. They get into a swing and are soon whirled to the top. There they remain, quite delighted, for half an hour, till it comes on to rain, when little Tommy and Harry venture to ask AX (the proprietor) when is he going to move on? AX's answer is very plain—"Not till every blessed seat is taken." How long do little Harry and Tommy remain perched up in the swing before they get their ride?
Brook Green has for dinner on Monday a beautiful sirloin of beef (B), which he flatters himself will last all the week. B On Tuesday he is told there is not a bit of it left. Brook Green is thunderstruck. He cannot understand it. He asks to see the landlady. She "is extremely sorry, but her bothersome cat (C) has eaten it all." B C You are requested to put the two together, and to state candidly if you think it very likely; and, if you have any doubt, you are to find out who really is (C) the cat?
Mrs. Large (of Wapping) has a private box (A) sent to her at Christmas, for the Adelphi, by her obliging friend Mr. Sams. The box is in the upper tier, over the proscenium. Mrs. Large (of Wapping) does not like any of her dear children to lose such a treat, so she takes all her family (B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K), besides one or two friends from Panton Square, who are stopping, for change of air, with her. A B C D E F G H I J K You are to find out how many the box was to admit; and how you are to get Mrs. Large and her party into it without having a single one over.
Military Intelligence.—We see a book advertised called "The Cornet Made Easy." We are very glad to hear this, and hope the poor fellow will make himself comfortable; only we should like to know what it is that has lately made the Cornet uneasy.
First Love.—The conversation at Holland House turned upon first love. Tom Moore compared it to a potato, "Because it shoots from the eyes." "Or, rather," exclaimed Byron, "because it becomes all the less by paring." THE MILITARY GAME OF GOOSE. GENTLEMEN OF A PARTICULARLY STAI(YE)D CHARACTER. We are apt to boast that the British army has never received a good dressing, and looking at the uniforms that have lately been put upon them, we must confess there is some truth in it. Our officers were never clever at cutting, and this may account for their making such bad tailors. It is a thousand pities that the Laurel which clusters round the brows of our Commanders, should be entwined with so much cabbage. It is true the geese saved the Capitol of Rome, but we do not think the Horse Guards need put itself under the wings of the British goose. If it does, Moses, in a very short time, will be cutting out Prince Albert as a Field Marshal. Never was the British army so surprised before, as when that cruel shell-jacket attempted by sheer treachery to cut off the rear from the main body of the forces. The French have a saying "Le Riaicule tue," so our soldiers may be diminished, in a ridiculous manner little expected by our political economists, if this new deadly weapon is discharged at them; for there is many a brave fellow who can stand fire, who falls dead before ridicule. The Horse Guards must not be a clothes mart, or a masquerade warehouse, or else the Duke, when he puts himself at the head of the army, will revive the old title of the Duc de Guys, and the national cry will be, "Sauve qui peut." TALES OF A LANDLORD. His house is free from damp. The situation is healthy. The water is beautiful. The poor-rates are not worth mentioning. The taxes a mere flea-bite. It is in excellent repair. It is a quiet fashionable neighbourhood. Omnibusses pass every two minutes. Five pounds will make it a "little Elysium." He has refused double the rent, only he wants a respectable tenant.
"Not a Seat amongst Them."—There is an old country lady so modest that she cannot pronounce the word "cherub;" but she always says, "the dear little angels who have accepted the Chiltern hundreds." AN AIRY LODGING. Country Cousin.—"Well, Tom, my boy, where be'est thee a-lodging noo?" Surveyor (pointing up to the top of St. Paul's).—"Why, I hang out there at present. Whenever you are passing my way, I shall be delighted to see you, if you will give me a drop in." THE SONG OF THE KNOCKER.
(A COMPANION TO SCHILLER'S BELL.) Gents Provoko, Portas Bango, Somnia Frango. Firmly screw'd upon the door Doth the lion-knocker frown. To-night its reign of noise is o'er; Courage! boys; we'll have it down! Long its strength defied Every dodge we tried; But its nuts no more shall bear it, From the hinge to-night we'll tear it. Varied parts of good and ill It has been its lot to fill. Many hearts within have bounded As the postman's knock has sounded. Cheek has flushed, and pulse has fluttered, When the written name was uttered. It might be from one most dear, Though far off, yet ever near; Or from one in hopes "you will Think about his little bill;" Or a letter overland, Sent from Ramjamjellyland, Telling how the ardent Coolies Had well thrashed the crafty Foolies; Or a dinner invitation, Or a Frankfort speculation, Or a life association, Or some hints on emigration, Or a looked-for explanation Of a former altercation; Retail changes lately made In some wine and spirit trade; Vows, professions, gift, or token, Promises, or kept or broken: Each and all, with double din, Has the knocker usher'd in. At the corner place a scout, For the vigilant police; Let him keep a sharp look-out, And, if need be, break the peace. From the stone-jug free Must our party be, Though we keep so by a fight, Or a witch-like flight by night. He who knocks and runs away, May live to knock another day. Let caution, then, all mischief guide, For fear some danger should betide. With watchful eyes the boys advance, Accomplishing a nigger dance, Performed upon the paving-stones, To sound of Ethiopian bones, With air appropriate, from their store, Of "Who dat knockin' at de door?" Now, as they near the destined sill, Hush'd are bones—the dance is still. One mighty Bang! the servant scares, And lifts the inmates from their chairs. Away! Away! not one remains When the sold maid the passage gains, And, as the neighbourhood they quit, Agree their knock has prov'd a hit. Hush! keep back! your chaffing cease, Some one's steps are this way bent. Is it one of the police? No, 'tis but a tipsy gent, Singing some night-song As he reels along. Now he turns the corner humming That there is "A good time coming." The straw is lying in the square, And cabs go by with muffled sound; Whilst cautious hands no longer dare To lift the knocker—leather bound. Through the night Burns a light From the bedroom window's height, As the angel of grim death Hovers there on dusky wings, To wait the passing breath Quiv'ring through life's curdled springs. Go, the mutes and mourners call, Plumed hearse and heavy pall! Head of that sad family Tenant of the tomb shall be Ere the ghastly week is o'er, And the knocker sounds once more. See! the thoroughfare is clear, Nothing in it but the lamps. Now, look sharp! the door draw near, Wrench the knocker from its clamps Does it still resist? Give a tougher twist. Put your stick within the ring. Now—with both hands—that's the thing! The sun is shining in the street, The clock moves on from three to five. The pavement glows with dazzling heat, And all the West-end is alive. The air with Bouquet-Royal laden, Or Patchouli's oppressive herb, Plays round the fair-haired high-born maiden, Whose Clarence draws up at the kerb. And now the knocker knows no quiet, But revels in unceasing riot. The flunkey first awakes the clang With "Rat-a-tat-tat, bang! bang!! bang!!!" The doctor greater care observes, With temper'd knock for shaken nerves. Next small tat-tat from frightened fingers Of one in seedy black, who lingers In fear and trembling at the door, Before he dares to knock once more. Professor he, of light guitar, Or Polish master from afar, Or poor relation come to claim Some small aid due to blood and name. All sorts of objects come and go, Like some phantasmagoric show. Patron or beggar, great or small, The knocker is a lift to all. Hip! huzza! my artful dodgers, It has fallen from the door. But the noise has roused the lodgers, Lights appear at every floor. If we stay we're done— Vanish, every one! As the poet sings, like bricks, Cut your luckies and your sticks. Those evening knocks! those evening knocks! That herald in a paper box, Which merchants leave with pens and soap; And notes in which they humbly hope You'll patronize the speculation, And save their household from starvation— Which if to do you're kindly willing, They'll call to-morrow for the shilling. Joy! joy! joy! we're safe at last. Where's the latch-key? Stand aside. Luck be praised, the peril's past, And we can our trophy hide! Wasn't it a lark? Hold hard, in the dark, And the chairs and tables mind, Till the lucifers I find. ——In! in with me, Comrades all, and shut the door, We will christen it once more. Stunner shall its new name be, Trophy of our bravery! Now we have in state enthroned it, Drink the healths of those who own'd it, Whom we've left, by sad mishap, Really not worth a rap! Now the festival begin: Ope the oysters—Where's the gin? From the closet have it out. Here's the corkscrew—pass the stout. Cruets, pickles, gin and water, Bread, meat, butter, pipes, and porter, On the table now we see; Fastest of the fast we'll be. Governors and landlord scorning, We will not go home till morning! RULES AND REGULATIONS FOR THE CONDUCT OF
STRANGERS VISITING LONDON. If your health is proposed, you must say it is the proudest moment of your life. You are not expected to take your hat in with you to dinner. It is liable to be kicked about if you put it under the table—people mistake it for the cat. It is no longer the fashion to say, "Here's to you, miss," and "I drink to you, ma'am," to every lady round the table before you take a glass of wine; however, if you do it once, never repeat it. When you begin a speech, you must be sure to state you are unaccustomed to public speaking. Take your coat off in the hall, but never give up your umbrella. If the servant offers to take it down stairs to dry it, tell him to mind his own business; and if he says another word, threaten to report him to his missus, and he will soon be quiet. The robberies of umbrellas in London is something awful! A University Chair of Music. If you go to the opera don't call out for "Music!" or tell "Nosey," or any of the "catgut scrapers," to strike up. Be careful also not to insult the box-keeper, by giving him a penny to run and fetch a playbill. If you take a lady, dispense with the usual gallantry of a bag of oranges. Should you take any, however, it is usual to offer them to all the ladies round you—after you have peeled them. It is no longer the fashion for a stranger to call at Buckingham Palace; but if there should be a Drawing Room, you had better go, by all means, and present your homage to your Sovereign, for otherwise it might look disrespectful. You have only to go in costume, with the sword and cocked hat, and send in your card, "with your compliments." If you are invited out to dinner, you must refrain as much as you can from taking a snooze directly the cloth is removed; and you should be above drinking the warm water that is given you, in a blue bowl, for your fingers. If you intend to dance, do not, as a matter of pride, fill your pockets with halfpence; and if you have a new pair of Berlins, put them on, and do not keep them folded up in your hands, as if you were too shabby to use them. If Joseph Ady sends you an invitation, write back word that you will come and take tea with him. You will find him a good sovereign fellow, and you may probably hear of something to your advantage. Shakspeare, after Curling. Have your hair curled; but if you take a lady down to the refreshment-room, you must know her extremely well before you can presume to ask her if "she'll have a drop of beer," or else she will certainly be offended. When you are leaving, supposing the servant at the door puts his hand out, shake it by all means, or else the poor fellow will fancy you are proud. You are not bound to answer any public questions in the street, as to "Who are you?" or to put any stranger in possession of personal facts relating to "your mother." If you are in doubt about a cab fare, or want to know some particular fact about the twopenny omnibuses, or the age of an actress, or a point at cribbage, or where the best glass of ale is to be had—write to the Duke of Wellington, and you will have an answer from the F. M. the same day. You are not bound to go to every theatre, or to see every exhibition in London. In fact, please yourself, and do not stop in town a day longer than you choose; for you will find the "boots" generally very reluctant to call you the morning you intend to start. For better precaution, you had better shave over night, and tie a piece of string to your big toe for the policeman to pull the first thing in the morning. T THE DOMESTIC MANNERS AND
CUSTOMS OF THE BEDOUIN
ARABS.
BY ONE WHO HAS NEVER BEEN AMONGST
THEM, BUT CAN IMAGINE EXACTLY WHAT
THEY ARE. Those Bedouins are curious fellows. You have heard of a race of Jumpers; well, they are a nation of Leapers. We walk, they fly. They are the bats of the human race—not men, and decidedly not angels, but something between the two. Their houses have no windows lower than the third floor. This is to prevent little boys jumping up. Their windows are not arranged like ours, but have small apertures, like the slits in letter-boxes, slanting downwards, to prevent any one looking into them. Bricks are exceedingly dear, on account of the height of the walls. A military review of Bedouin Arabs exceeds anything of the sort. At a given signal a whole battalion springs upwards, gets inextricably mingled in one dense flying column, and then falls down again, each man precisely in his previous position. They discharge their muskets when they reach a given height, and no accident ever occurs, unless a raw recruit happens to have sprained his ankle. Some of their light columns advance twelve feet deep; when I say twelve feet deep, of course I mean in the air. The Monster Sweeps
"A Toss up for the Derby". It is curious to see them in the streets. If the door is not open, they will take a flying leap through the window, like a harlequin. The first sign of intelligence a Bedouin child gives, is to leap straight out of its cradle. A lid is always placed over it, for the purpose of keeping it down; and when the lid is taken off the child flies out, like a living Jack-in-the-Box. A steeplechase is with them literally a steeplechase. They have no horses, but clear churches, pillars, obelisks, everything that comes in their way, on foot. Their animals have, in a smaller degree, the same agile propensities. When two cats dart up into the air, fighting, they are soon lost in the clouds, and you will hear them mollrowing above you for a long time; but I defy you to say, you ever saw both of them come back. When the Bedouins go out shooting they pursue the game in the air, and do not fire until they are right over the bird's back. It is a mean sport, however, which a real Bedouin gentleman is above doing. But their children catch sparrows easily, by putting salt upon their tails. A Bedouin Arab does not give his hand in marriage, but his foot. The Sheik blesses his people once a year. He springs from his balcony, and when he has reached the centre of the populace, he gives his blessing, so that he may fall equally on the heads of all his subjects; and then he springs back to his balcony, and the ceremony is concluded. One poor Sheik (Ben Allah Wishi Washi) had the gout, and could not do this. He tried to bless them in a balloon once, but the enraged populace would not have it, and tore it to pieces, amid loud cries of "Shame!" He was sentenced to wear tight boots for life—the most ignominious punishment that can be put upon one of Bedouin extraction. Their postmen are let off from the post-office like pigeons—they drop the letters down the chimneys. A BEDOUIN VESTRY MEETING.
Chairman—"Sons of Allah, the meeting is now up." A meeting is adjourned very primitively. The chairman lifts his leg, and the whole meeting suddenly takes to its heels and springs into the air, like so many thousand frogs, and the next minute there is not one left. Their dances are very lively. They generally take place in the open air, or else if they danced in a room, they would be knocking their heads every minute against the ceiling. To see them all take the same leap simultaneously, and balancezing some fifty feet above the earth, is something so extraordinary, that it almost lifts you off your feet. No less extraordinary are their ballets. They are more like fire-works than any other exhibition; and you hear the loud exclamations of "O—o—h" escape from the crowd, when a premiÈre danseuse takes a higher flight than usual. Their grand pas are always watched through long telescopes, which are let out at the doors for six piastres a night. A Bedouin duel will sometimes last for days, for it is always the object of the person who is to be shot to get out of the fire of his adversary, and thus they will go on jumping after one another over the whole kingdom for a week together. Nurses toss their babies up in the air, and if they are slow in coming down, they jump up after them and fetch them. I have heard of a game of ÉcartÉ being played, À vol d'aigle, some 15,000 feet above the level of the sea. The great dodge is to prevent your partner jumping up behind you to look over your cards. Bedouin Royalty does not wear a crown, but a pair of spring-heeled jack-boots, and it is high treason for any one but the Sheik to put his foot into it. The Bedouin Arabs are a cheerful people—their active life leads them to be hilarious. They are early risers, and are generally up with the lark. They are a volatile, but happy race; and it is very rarely you hear of a Bedouin Arab having corns. He will take up a bill, too, quicker than any man. A BEDOUIN BAILIFF.
England's Stream of Charity.—We are told by the advertisement that "The Asylum for Distressed Sewers is always open." This asylum must surely be the Thames? Mockery.—"I have learnt this profound truth," says Alderman Johnson, "from eating turtle, that it shows a most depraved taste to mock anything for its greenness." Public Communism.—The only kind of Communism that is likely to go down in England is Half-and-Half. A DREADFUL CASE OF POISONING,
OR,
ANOTHER OF MY HUSBAND'S STUPID JOKES, WHICH HE THINKS ARE
SO CLEVER. Didn't know which way to turn. Oh MY dear sir, if ever there was a miserable woman in this world, it is the poor creature who now takes up her pen to tell you how wretched she is. I have not slept a wink all night. I must tell you my husband is dreadfully suspicious, and so am I—and the best of women at times; but still I never could have suspected he would have suspected me in the abominable suspicious manner he has lately done. Will you believe it, sir, he declared last night that he could plainly see I wanted to "pisen him." The fact is, we had for supper some mushrooms and a lovely pie just warmed up with a little steak in it, for I thought I would give him a treat—and nicer mushrooms, or a tenderer steak, I think I never tasted in all my life—when what does my fine gentleman do but turn up his fine nose! Only first I must tell you that he ate a very 'arty supper, and had his whisky toddy all nice and comfortable—for I must have mixed him six glasses if I mixed him one—and smoked his pipe, though I have told him over and over again I would not allow any such filthy practices in my house, especially the parlour. But kindness is thrown away upon some men; for what does my Mr. Smellfungus do, but he turns round upon me, and because he feels a big pain in his side, accuses me on the spot of wishing to "pisen him." Those were his very words. Oh! that I should have lived to have heard them; but it is not the first time by ever so many that the suspicious creature has dared to turn round upon me in this bumptious manner. The first time he degraded himself in my eyes with these low suspicions was when he had been eating pies at Twickenham, and we were returning home in the steamer, when all of a sudden he called the whole cabin to witness that he was sure "I had pisened him." Oh, dear! I was so struck that I No, that I didn't; but I told him, once for all, if ever he dared to bring such a heavy charge against me I would make him pay for it dearly, that I would, even if it cost me my life. Here the monster laughed, and dropt the poison, but he brought it up again soon afterwards; for I recollect it was on a Friday, and we had a most lovely giblet pie for dinner, though not a morsel as big as a pin's head could I touch, for I was busy all the while picking bones with my wretch of a husband, and I really thought I should have choked, I was in such a way with him. He had no sooner emptied the dish than he threw the "pisen" again in my face; and he did it also another time when we had a quince pie—and a nice delicious squince, in my eyes, is worth a Jew's eye any day; but my dainty lord and master could see nothing but pisen at the bottom of it, and complained of cholera and pins and needles in his inside, and I don't know what else. So this morning I packed up my bandbox, and asked him boldly what he had got in his head lately? and that his low base suspicions had completely poisoned my existence, and that I would jump into the Thames as sure as I was born sooner than be suspected any longer. When my brazen monster, who is known for not draws his chair close up to mine, and laughs in my face, which made me so boil over that, in the heat of the moment, I threw the teapot at him, and then the slop-basin, and after that the milk-jug. I did not spare the crockery, or the brute either, for I was not going to be accused for nothing, I can tell you; but the more cups I broke, the more saucily he laughed, till the big drops ran down his fat face, and he asked me, with a nasty grin I didn't half like, "Whether I thought he belonged to a burial society for nothing?" Oh! sir, the truth flashed all at once across my two eyes, for I knew my husband had been reading these horrible newspapers lately, and I felt instinctively they had poisoned his mind, so I ran out of the house without my bonnet, and—will you believe it?—my hair still in curl-papers, and got into a cab, vowing I would never put my foot in it again until he had gone down upon his bended knees and confessed I was a poor injured wrongly-suspected woman. I would sooner be a widow at once than be thrown about in such a way. Oh! sir, I ask you if it is not infamous, after being married to a man these fifteen years and more, to be suspected of giving him his gruel with a spoonful of arsenic, and of wishing to hurry him out of this world on a nasty toadstool instead of a fine mush-room? But, sir, it's these infamous papers. I wish they were all burnt of a heap, for I can plainly trace every bit of my pretty Smellfungus's suspicions to those atrocious "Poisonings in Essex," which have lately given the public such a turn. Since they have been published, every husband suspects that his darling wife wishes to kill him in order to receive the filthy bonus for burying him. I cannot tell you how many poor suffering wives are separated at the present moment from their brutes of husbands because they have had this abominable poison flung in their teeth every day for the last two months. The poor innocent injured dears of men dare not now for their lives take a single meal in their houses, for fear it should be their last! It's quarrelling with their own bread and butter, to say the very least of it. I remain, sir, at my hotel (the "Two Magpies"), till my cruel good-for-nothing lord and master chooses to come and fetch me. Yours, in despair, crying my eyes out, An Innocent, Loving, but Shamefully Suspected Wife, and Mother of Six Lovely Children. P.S.—Oh! sir, my husband has just been here, and tells me it was only meant as a joke—a pretty joke, indeed!—and that, as Hamlet says, he was only "pisening in jest," for how could he help suspecting, when I gave him nothing but pies—beafsteak pies, eel pies, giblet pies, quince, and mince, and all sorts of pies—but that I regularly wanted to pisen him! D'ye see—pies and pisening? I never heard such a joke! How men can make such donkeys of themselves I don't know! But I couldn't well be angry with the silly fellow, for he has brought me such a beautiful shawl; and I need not tell you, sir, that in matrimony a lovely Cashmere hides a multitude of faults. ONE WHO HAS A FINGER IN EVERYBODY'S PIE.
Teetotaler's Toast.—"The worm of the still—may it soon be a still worm!" A Critic.—A man who judges an author's works by the "errata." Vanity.—There is not a mite in the world (says Lavater), but that thinks itself "quite the cheese." FRIGHTFUL STATE OF THINGS,
IF FEMALE AGITATION IS ALLOWED ONLY FOR A MINUTE. The standard of rebellion is first raised at a fashionable tea-party. The rebels rush into the street, break open the public houses, and ask the men if they are not ashamed of themselves to be sitting there, whilst their poor dear wives are crying their eyes out at home? Clubs are put down and a Petticoat Government proclaimed. Armed patrols parade the streets, and take up every good-for-nothing husband that is found out after nine o'clock. Total abolition of latch-keys. All men proved to be "brutes," are taken to business in the morning by the Nurse, and fetched home at night by the Cook. Those who offer the slightest resistance are put to mend their wives' stockings. The greatest reprobates are sentenced to sit up for their dear wives. The Happy Family.
"A Quiet Hint to the Wives of England" The Lords of Creation are driven to the greatest extremities to enjoy a quiet pipe. But if detected, they are immediately made public examples of, by being sent out to air the babies. Those who resist the strong arm of the sex are immediately sent to the House of Correction, and put for fourteen days upon dirty linen. If detected a second time, they are sentenced to a month's imprisonment, and hard labour at the mangle. The most refractory are condemned to cold meat for life, without benefit of pickles. The heartless ringleader is loaded with irons. A member of the Royal Family only saves himself with a fine of twelve dozen bright pokers, and an Exchequer bond for one hundred steel fenders! But human patience can endure it no longer, and the poor convicts endeavour to elude the vigilance of the watch, by smuggling themselves out amongst the clean linen. The secret, however, is accidentally divulged by a criminal of great weight, who drops through the fragile clothes-basket. The wretched criminals are carried away by the overpowering force of "Woman's Mission," and their precipitate folly only ends in their being floored at the bottom of the stairs, where, in aching shame, they lie and bite the dust. Five thousand helpless husbands, whose only crime is their unfortunate sex, are incarcerated in the Thames Tunnel! Not a glass of grog, or a newspaper, or a cigar is allowed them!! Hundreds perish daily for the want of the common necessaries of life!!! The Black Hole is beaten hollow!!!! Frightful rush, and tremendous overflow in the Thames Tunnel, through an insane attempt of the Boy Jones to escape by the roof!!!!! Those who are not drowned, go mad. An armistice takes place between the opposing bodies. A member of the Coburg family offers his hand to Mrs. Gamp, but is indignantly rejected by the lovely widow. The body of the "oldest inhabitant" is found at Herne Bay, where it is supposed he emigrated for safety. There is not a single man left, excepting the Man in the Moon. The ladies, being left to themselves, proceed to discuss their wrongs, when, after several years' arguments, the world is graced with This continues thirty years, when the argument is decided at length in favour of Who compodges herself in honour of the occasion a nice dish of tea, and after propodging a toast to the memory of that blessed creature Mrs. Harris dies universally "regretted" on the throne of Buckingham Palace.
Richardson's ghost makes his last appearance at Greenwich Fair!!!
THE END OF THE WORLD! AND OF THE COMIC ALMANACK. READER, YOU ARE REQUESTED TO DROP A TEAR!!!
TWO LITTLE CUTS THROWN IN. THE NIGHTINGALE'S JUG-JUG. PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN AFTER DINNER ON CHRISTMAS DAY. Au revoir. We meet again in 1850. AS IT OUGHT TO BE—OR—THE LADIES TRYING A CONTEMPTIBLE SCOUNDREL for a "BREACH of PROMISE."
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