(
From the Ouran-outan Town Journal and Monkey World Gazette.)
A very curious creature, unknown hitherto to the philosophy of Monkeydom, has been lately brought to this city, and is now to be seen at the Zoological Gardens. The stranger has been examined by the most learned citizens of Ouran-outan Town, and particularly by the President and Scientific Committee of the Society for the Promulgation of Unintelligible Knowledge; but opinion is divided as to his probable genus, race, and species. It is confidently stated, however, that he shows symptoms of belonging to a debased and degenerated breed of some savage Ouran-outan race, who, cut off from civilization and refinement, offer now a humiliating example of what a monkey may come to. The conjecture is supported by a sort of unintelligible jargon uttered by the animal. He frequently repeats sounds which may be spelt thus—"johnsmithstrandlondon;" and "dammeifthesemonkeychapsdontthinkthey'remen;" but upon no possible rules of philological philosophy can the meaning (if, indeed, it have any) of this gabble be ascertained. The animal, when captured by a hunting party from Ape Valley, was covered in a most ludicrous and absurd manner, by pieces of cloth cut into barbarous shapes, and presenting a sad instance of the utter negation of all rules of taste and propriety. He is believed not to have any natural tail, and so conscious is he of the want that he seems to have fashioned two cloth artificial ones, in which, by a strange and savage ingenuity, are placed (or misplaced) pouches, or holes—to be used, it is conjectured, for hiding his young ones. The animal, when taken, made no resistance, but seemed considerably surprised, and repeatedly uttered a sound like "monkeyshaveme," or "monkeysgotme," opinions are divided as to which; afterwards he looked steadily at his captors and distinctly pronounced "sichalotoguys," the apparent spelling of which was taken down on the spot.
Since its arrival at the Zoological Gardens the animal has manifested signs of decided intelligence. Meat having been set before him, instead of eating it like a civilized Ouran-outan with his paws, he produced, from some of his pouches, two strange instruments, one of a cutting nature, the other furnished with prongs, by means of which he divided the morsels and raised them to his mouth. After feeding he now walks round the company upon his hind legs, in the manner of a rational being; and were it not for his absurd clothes, his habits of rubbing or brushing his hair, washing his face, never biting nor kicking, and especially were it not for a sort of chimney-pot which he wears upon his head, many Ouran-outans would really be inclined to think of him as approaching, in some degree, to the verge of a dim and cloudy rationality. At all events the creature is a matter of enlightened curiosity, and we understand is likely to form one of the main attractions at the approaching Exhibition of the Want of Industry of Monkeys of all Nations.
Monster discovered by the Ourang Outangs.
HOW I WENT UP THE JUNG-FRAU, AND CAME
DOWN AGAIN.
(By Peter Twitters, Philosopher, Camden Town.)
[From his own private Diary, which he kept for publication in the Times,
only they didn't put it in.]
July 25th.—Determined to ascend the Jung-Frau mountain, which is totally inaccessible and impossible to climb. Difficulties only add fuel to the fire of a Briton's determination. Was asked what I should do when I got to the top. Replied, come down again. That's what everybody does who goes up high hills. Engaged guides, porters, &c. Provided ourselves with necessaries, such as ladders, umbrellas, skates for the glaciers, ropes, brandy, camp stools, &c., and started. Quite a sensation in the village. Landlord of hotel with tears in his eyes asked me to pay my bill before I went. Didn't. Began the ascent; ground became steepish, as may be seen by the illustration. Hard work. Suppose such a gradient would puzzle Mr. Stephenson. Talking of Stephenson, the whole party, puffing and blowing like so many locomotives. Pulled out our camp-stools and tried to sit down on them. Ground so steep that we all lost our balance, and tumbled down to the bottom of the slope. Never mind. Gathered ourselves up, and at it again. Recovered our former position, and getting higher, found the slope still more excessive. In fact, it was a wonder to me how we managed it at all. Approached the glacier region, and found it rather softish. Unpleasant consequence of which is that the whole of our party sink up to the neck in half-melted sludge.
Scrambling out again with much ado, we feel chilly, and refresh with brandy. Being apprehensive of the ava-lanches, we keep a sharp look-out and dodge them. At one time six huge masses of moving snow fell together, but we watch our chance and slip between them with the greatest dexterity.
Next danger a really dreadful one. Arrive at a fearful precipice, the edge very much overhanging the base, so that it formed a species of cave. Called a council of war. Council of war were for going home again. Rebuked them, and pointing to rough edges of rock, proposed to try to crawl to summit. Set to work accordingly. Dangerous business, but succeeded. On the top of this tremendous cliff, discovered a vast chasm or crevice, which appeared to bar all further progress. Guides in despair. Much too wide to jump. Looked down. Crevice did not appear to have any bottom in particular. Called another council of war, and at the same moment a violent squall of wind and snow sweeping by, put up my umbrella, when, horrible to relate, the storm caught it, and lifted me into the air; the principal guide, who caught my leg, being carried up also, and in a moment we were hurried, in the very thick of the squall, and deafened by its howling, across the abyss, and landed on the further bank. The guides on the other side now flung across the rope, which we caught, and fastened to a rock, and one of their number, unfortunately the heaviest, proceeded to come across. The remaining two, however, not having strength to support his weight, he fairly pulled them into the crevice, so that we were obliged to drag up the whole three. Found that we were now not far from the summit. Saw it before us rising in a sharp peak against the blue sky. More of the steep slope work. Guides at last become so dreadfully exhausted, that I have to drag up the whole four. Terribly hard work. Nothing but my splendid muscular development would have enabled me to go through with it. Ice decidedly too rough for skating over, as may be seen by the following diagram.
Close to the summit, when another dreadful crevice with a high rock on the opposite side threatens to stop our progress. Surmounted the difficulty by a daring gymnastic feat, performed as follows:—Standing on each other's shoulders, the lowest man let his body incline over the cliff, so that I, as highest, reached the edge of the opposite side, and made fast the rope to a projection in the rock.
Thus we happily got over, and in half an hour reached the extreme peak of the Jung-Frau, where we clustered together, and gave three British cheers, while half a dozen eagles flew round and round us.
Had no time to make scientific experiments; but ascertained that the strength of alcohol is not diminished in any sensible degree by the extreme rarefaction of the air at great heights. I subjoin a telescopic view of mountain scenery, as it appeared through my double-barrelled lorgnette. N.B. I squint.
Having got up, prepared to go down again, an operation which was performed in a much quicker style than the other. Started down a slippery slope, and missing our footing, and not being able to stop ourselves, proceeded in this manner, down at least 2000 feet, before we were brought up by a ridge of rocks, composed of uncommonly hard granite, against which we rebounded like footballs. Up, however, and at it again. Came to another difficulty; found ourselves in a dreadful gully or ravine, with no sort of exit but a narrow cleft, down which poured a tremendous cataract, into an awful black and foaming pool 500 feet below. There was nothing for it but to fling ourselves into the torrent, allow ourselves to go over the waterfall, and take our chance in the cauldron—which we did, in the manner shown in cut. The exploit was quite dreadful, from the roar of the water, and the speed with which we were hurled through the air, and soused at least 100 fathoms (for I counted them) into the pool below, where, after we had reached the surface, we were whirled about for at least an hour and a quarter before we managed to emerge. Found the experience I had picked up in the Holborn swimming baths of little avail in descending this cataract, but was only too happy to escape at any price. The rest of the journey was comparatively easy, owing to a very happy thought of mine. Happening to see a roundish-shaped avalanche roll past, remembered the globe tricks in the circus, where Signor Sadustini kept his balance on a big wooden ball going down an inclined plane. Communicated the notion to guides, waited for the next avalanche, jumped on it as it passed, and went down like winking, always keeping our places upon the top of the ball, which gradually increased to such a size, that it carried off several chÂlets beneath us. But that, of course, we had nothing to do with; keeping our places as well as Sadustini himself, until the huge snowball came to a full stop in the midst of a pine forest, where we clambered out of the snow, and after several hours' hard walking, reached the village, where we were greeted by a deputation of the authorities, headed by the hotel-keeper holding my bill in his hand, who delivered an address of congratulation, and inquired when it would be convenient for me to settle. Postponing, however, considerations of business to those of festivity, a romantic rural fÊte was got up in honour of our return. The happy peasantry poured in from all sides, singing, "Come arouse us, arouse us, we merry Swiss boys." The notary had a table in the corner, which is always usual. The Seigneur du Village and his lady sat on a rustic throne. All the peasants had jerkins and breeches, and bright stockings, with lots of ribands, and all the peasantesses had short muslin petticoats and pink satin shoes. Choosing then, as a partner, the loveliest and the most virtuous—I was particular about the last—I opened the ball.
BLOOMERISM IN FULL BLOW.
The ladies are about to turn over a new leaf, a leaf in the matter of costume, unprecedented since the days of the fig leaf. Petticoats are to join hoops and farthingales; and long skirts, having long swept all before them, are now, in their turn, to be swept into the limbo of all the vanities.
Of course, now, breeches, trowsers, and all their synonymes, will no longer be forbidden words. The tribes of the "unmentionables" and the "unwhisperables" have had their day. We observe, however, that certain pretty modifications of the original terms are recommended, and we are told to choose between "Pantilettes and Pettiloons". But why not call the objects in question "trowser-ettos", or, if an Americanized phrase be thought appropriate, "limb envelopers" or "understanding swathers," might be advantageously adopted.
It is, of course, to be anticipated that the reformed costume will spread upwards, as well as downwards, in society; giving us an opportunity of reading, on the morrow of the first ensuing drawing-room day, that "Her ladyship wore a splendid pair of loud satin pants, of deep purple, with a double broad yellow stripe running down the leg, and new patent elastic straps, tastefully embroidered with gold." At the same time, as it is inherent in the nature of things, that pantaloons have to be kept up at the waist as well as down at the ankle, we shall expect to see advertised "The ne plus ultra ladies' braces," and the "Better than new plus ultra feminine suspenders."
One dreadful question remains unsolved: it looms upon us as we approach it, and the nerveless pen splutters in the nib. However, we will make the effort, and state the problem: Given—a horse, and a lady about to ride it. The lady is in Bloomer costume—the horse fully caparisoned for a lady in Bloomer costume. Query: Will the horse have two stirrups; one on the near side, the other on the off?
What the parks and public gardens will be we have confidently and fearlessly set forth. The mothers, daughters, grand-aunts, second-cousins, and great-grand-nieces of England, may be expected, one and all, to abjure the ancient faith of furbelows and flounces. Cedunt arma togÆ, says our old Latin grammar, which literally translated, means, "Arms yield to the gown;" but now the gown has had its day, and in its turn, yields—not to arms, however, but to legs. Long was the reign of the proverbialized petticoat; but, like the speech of a prosy orator, it has been interrupted by the imperative cry of "cut it short."
Still we will not complain, even though Bloomerism may take a step still further, may aspire to Hessians with tassels, may dare to sport tops. For, as was sagely remarked by the American editor "Why, if female society be pronounced a humanizing agency, should we not endeavour to see as much of the ladies as possible?"
The "Bloomers" in Hyde Park, or an Extraordinary Exhibition for 1852
The Peace Society—or a New "Field of Action" for the Military ... in "The good time coming." (?)
THE BATTLE OF THE HARVEST FIELD.
A brilliant victory has just been achieved by the troops of General Concord, Commander-in-Sheaf over a formidable field—not, however, of artillery, but of wheat. The enemy—i.e., the wheat, was very thickly planted on the ground, there being hardly room, indeed, amongst the heads for the insertion of another ear; and upon the approach of General Concord and his forces, immediate measures were taken for the attack. The Commander-in-Sheaf drew up his army in three lines: the first consisting of several brigades of the gallant Sickle-eers, supported by flanking parties of the Reaping-hook Light Bobs, and a strong detachment of regular and irregular Rakers. Behind, and designed to support this division, were the two celebrated brigades of Light and Heavy Binders. In the rear were disposed a powerful body of the Royal Horse Harvest Wagoneers. Scattered bodies of Foot Gleaners were dispersed here and there, and the refreshment of the forces was amply provided for by a perfect battalion of suttlers and vivandiÈres, who, with the most cool and heroic courage, penetrated into those parts of the field where the enemy was falling fastest, with eatables and drinkables for the forces. So certain, also, was the Commander-in-Sheaf of victory, that he caused hospital accommodation, in the shape of barns and granaries, to be erected for the cut-down masses of the enemy, who were conveyed thither by the gallant Wagoneers.
The battle commenced at sunrise, by a combined attack from the Sickle-eers and Reaping-hook Light Bobs. The effect was tremendous. The enemy could not stand a moment before the sweep of our forces, who penetrated slowly but surely into their dense ranks, mowing them down by thousands. All this time the Light and Heavy Binders supported their comrades with the greatest efficiency and effect; and the Rakers, regular and irregular, performed prodigies of valour. Indeed, the coolness of the troops, in one sense was as remarkable as their heat in another. Every movement was performed with unflinching steadiness, and not a man fell (by tripping over a rake) but his comrade stepped into his place (until he got up again). The Binders also distinguished themselves by their discipline; and the order, "Form Sheafs! Prepare to receive Harvest Carts!" was regularly obeyed with splendid promptitude. The fate of the day became speedily evident. The Corn made no resistance worth mentioning, but it certainly stood up with great pluck to be cut down; and by the direction of the Commander-in-Sheaf, was carried to the receptacles provided for the disposal of a brave enemy, with all the honours of the harvest field.
By sundown the victory was complete. Not an individual of the enemy held his head erect. On our side there was a terrible effusion of perspiration, and a great quantity of provisions and drink were reported missing; but on the whole the Battle of the Harvest Field may be considered as one of the most advantageous victories ever won.
THE BATTLE OF THE YATCHES.
A truly affecting copy of verses, made by a British Tar in Spit-head last August, and corked up in a bottle, floated to the end of the Herne Bay Pier last week. The bottle was speedily uncorked, in a vague expectation of Cognac; but the finders, discovering that the only spirit which it contained was the spirit of the verses, magnanimously surrendered the whole to the board of Admiralty, as justly and legally appertaining to that body. The Board, having sat upon the bottle (and broken it), rose as soon as possible after instructing the First Lord to transmit to us the poetry, with a polite note, stating how they had come by it, and lamenting that the poet should have so obstinately adhered to his peculiar mode of spelling the word "Yacht."
THE BATTLE OF THE YATCHES.
Oh, weep ye British Sailors true,
Above or under hatches,
Here's Yankee Doodle's been and come,
And beat our crackest yatches!
They started all to run a race,
And wor well timed with watches;
But oh! they never had no chance,
Had any of our yatches.
The Yankee she delayed at first,
Says they, "She'll never catch us,"
And flung up their tarpaulin hats—
The owners of the yatches!
But presently she walked along;
"O dear," says they, "she'll match us!"
And stuck on their tarpaulin hats,
The owners of the yatches!
Then deep we ploughs along the sea
The Yankee scarcely scratches,
And cracks on every stitch of sail
Upon our staggering yatches.
But one by one she passes us
While bitterly we watches,
And utters imprecations on
The builders of our yatches.
And now she's quite hull down a-head,
Her sails like little patches.
For sand barges and colliers we
May sell our boasted yatches.
We faintly hears the Club-house gun—
The silver cup she snatches—
And all the English Clubs are done,
The English Clubs of yatches!
They say she didn't go by wind,
But wheels, and springs, and ratches;
And that's the way she weathered on
Our quickest going yatches.
But them's all lies, I'm bound to say—
Although they're told by batches—
'Twas build of hull, and cut of sail,
That did for all our yatches.
But novelty, I hear them say,
Some novelty still hatches!
The Yankee yatch the keels will lay
Of many new Club yatches.
And then we'll challenge Yankee land,
From Boston Bay to Natchez,
To run their crackest craft agin
Our spick and span new yatches.
MODES OF ADDRESSING PERSONS OF
VARIOUS RANKS.
(By Our Fast Professor.)
A Duke, or other Titled Person. "Now, old Strawberry-Leaves;" or, as the case may be. An Earl carries Five Balls, and a Baronet a Bloody Hand, which naturally points out the mode of addressing the bearers. A Bishop is gratified by being addressed as "Old Shirt-Sleeves." If the ecclesiastic wears spectacles, it is de rigueur to add, facetiously, that you observe his is not a "See Sharp." An Archdeacon you will, of course, call "Archy;" and a Rural Dean you will address as "My Rustic." The Clergy, as a body, you will speak of as the "White Chokers." The Lay Aristocracy are simply styled "The Nobs." Attention to this rule is requested. An irreverent young reporter (from Ireland) having recently incautiously asked an official of the House of Lords "who that Buffer was?" (indicating a nobleman who was speaking,) was solemnly answered: "Sir, we have no Buffers here; they are all Peers of the Realm."
A Police Magistrate. Before you are fined—"My Lord;" "Your Worship;" "Your Reverence;" "Your Excellency;" "Your Majesty;" or whatever title of honour comes readiest to your tongue. After Justice has done her worst, you will merely allude to your enemy as the "Beak."
Your Father. Speaking to him, say, "Guvnor," or "Old Strike-a-Light;" of him, "The Old 'Un."
A Tradesman. Your address in this case will depend upon the state of accounts between yourself and the party spoken to; but an easy familiarity should generally be preserved; and it is a good rule, if you wish to please a tradesman, to call him by a name, or make some allusion, derived from the trickery of his particular trade. A Grocer you will call "Young Chicory;" or, if a female, "Mrs. Beans." A Sausage Vendor's shop you will enter playfully imitating the cry of the itinerant merchant who supplies daily food to the canine and feline menial. And a Woollen Draper you should salute with, "Well, Devil's Dust."
The Waitress at a Restaurateur's, or elsewhere. "Mary, my love, my only angel, come here;" "Sarah, my darling, what's good for my complaint?" "Jane's very sweet upon me, ain't you, Jane?"
A Box-keeper. "Here, Pew-opener."
A Pew-opener. "Here, Box-keeper."
All sorts and conditions of Men. In any manner in which a gentleman would not address them.
THE TRUE HISTORY OF THE KOH-I-NOOR.
Now for the first time made public, in spite of the most lavish offers
to the Author from Her Majesty's Government.
The Koh-i-noor is made of the very best crown glass, and the workmanship is very superior. It was originally a chandelier ornament in a dancing school kept by a Mr. Fogrum at Ponder's End, about the middle of last century. Mr. Fogrum, however, growing serious, turned his dancing-school into a Newlight chapel, and preached a charity sermon in behalf of himself. That night two rascals determined to rob the chapel of the collection, and accordingly opened the door with a one-pronged fork, and got in. Finding, however, that the collection consisted only of a penny token, a card counter, a penny farthing, and a bad half-crown, one of them, under the impulse of vexation, jerked the half-crown into the air, when it struck down the Koh-i-Noor from the chandelier—the would-be thief putting the bit of glass into his pocket as a memento of the transaction.
The next day William Priggins, for so was he named, enlisted in the H.E.I.C.'s service, and presently joined his regiment, the 007th, at Juggerbadab. Not liking the service, however, he deserted, blacked himself all over, gave up wearing clothes, and set up as a Thug. After doing a good stroke of business in this new line, he was ultimately apprehended by the officers of the Rajah Jibbety-Jibbety, and, to save his life, offered to give up the Koh-i-Noor, which he told the Rajah he had stolen out of a pawnbroker's shop in Whitechapel. The Rajah was at the time in pecuniary difficulties—so much so, as to have serious notions of coming to London and taking a crossing, or singing Hindostanee lyrics, with a tum-tum and his heir-apparent, in the streets. Being a statesman of great acuteness and foresight, however, he saw that something handsome might be made of the Koh-i-Noor, and, in the first place, christened it by that name, it having been formerly called "Bit-o'-Glass". In the Rajah's capital, the city of Huggerymug, resided a jeweller of enormous wealth, called Tiffin Gong. This man the Rajah caused to be summoned before him.
"What is the value of this inestimable diamond?" he demanded, showing him the Koh-i-Noor.
Tiffin Gong made his salaam, and after looking at it, replied, "May the Rajah live for ever, and until the middle of the week after. The value is eighteen pice," which amounts to three farthings English money.
"Tiffin," said the Rajah, "just look again; and then look at this bowstring. Is not the value of that diamond just twenty millions of lacs of rupees?" And he put his hand to his throat, and made a cheerful choking noise with his tongue.
"On second thoughts," said the jeweller, "the value of the diamond is exactly twenty millions of lacs of rupees".
The Rajah ordered in his Durbar or council, who were smoking their pipes, sitting on the door-mats in the lobby, and then before them repeated his question; to which the jeweller, with one eye on the bowstring, returned his second answer.
"You see," said the Rajah, "Tiffin Gong is an excellent judge of jewels. He declares this wonderful gem worth twenty million of lacs; he shall have it for nineteen and a half, which is just as though I had given him a half lac as a present."
Of course the Durbar were in raptures at this liberality, and sung the national anthem, "Bramah save the Rajah!" with the greatest enthusiasm. As for Poor Tiffin Gong, he saw that he was but a departed coon, and turned very nearly white with rage and terror. He had not got exactly nineteen millions and a half of lacs, but he handed over nineteen and a quarter. Upon which the Rajah, holding this to be a breach of engagement, retained the Koh-i-Noor and the rupees too; and when Tiffin Gong complained of being kept hanging about the court trying to get his own, the Rajah said he might try another sort of dangling, and so hanged him literally, and in thorough good earnest.
Being thus undoubted possessor of the jewel, the Rajah ordered the Chroniclers and Keepers of the Records to invent all sorts of stories about the Koh-i-Noor, and to stick them as notes into the next edition of the History of Jiggerydam, his kingdom, all of which was done to admiration, and everybody who did not believe the notes, was beheaded, except a few, who were hanged. The after story of this wonderful jewel may be soon told. The Rajah wore it in his nose, but was speedily made war upon by another Rajah, who was determined to have a grab at the priceless stone. The Rajahs met in single combat, and were found after the battle with only a hand of each remaining, a whisker which could not be identified, and the Koh-i-Noor between them. It then fell into the possession of the Emperor Mahommed Bung, from whom it was taken after fifteen years' war by the celebrated Mahratta chief, Tater Khan. Bung, in fact, had, as a last resource, swallowed the stone, which choked him; but Tater Khan had it out in no time, as he said himself, "by the help of Allah and an oyster knife." The Khan's descendants, who were continually conspiring against each other, and putting arsenic in each other's curry with intent to get possession of the bone, or rather stone, of contention, at length fell into arrears of tribute to their proud landlords, the H.E.I.C., who at last, backed by the Government, put in a distress, seized the Koh-i-Noor, and sent it home; when Mr. Bramah, who is no relation to the idol of that name, made a cage for it, and all the world had lately an opportunity of seeing it. We regret that all the rubs which the Koh-i-Noor has received have failed to heighten its brilliancy, and it is the opinion of those best acquainted with the facts, that the gem is not brighter now than when Mr. Fogrum hung up his chandelier in his dancing-school at Ponder's End.
THE KOH-I-NOOR AS IT APPEARED IN THE CRYSTAL PALACE.
Advice "To those about to marry"——buy—cheap Furniture—
MRS. BEAKEY'S TABLE (AND CHAIR) TALK.
Well, my love, Charles thought that as I had vowed I would never marry into furnished lodgings, we had better wait until he had saved money enough to furnish a house comfortably. I was sillier then than I am now, and I thought his wanting to postpone our marriage didn't look much like love, so I sulked. He was sillier then than he is now, and minded a woman's sulks. He furnished a house completely from top to bottom, from an advertising warehouse, and the whole bill came to 29l. 11s. 3½d. We married and took possession. Here is my diary of the week, love; I preserve it for any of my young friends who are in a hurry to marry.
Monday.—Charles, while shaving, rested his left hand heavily on the dressing-table. It smashed under his hand, he cut himself severely, and it was a mercy he didn't have his dear nose off. I flew to the drawers for something to stop the bleeding, and the keys broke or the locks wouldn't work, and we had to open the drawers with the shovel. The hay, with which the easy chair was stuffed, smelt so disagreeably, that we were obliged to send it out of the room, and, as Anne was carrying it, the chair came in halves, the back and arms falling away from the seat.
Tuesday.—The frame of the looking-glass gave way, the glass fell out, and smashed the beautiful little French clock dear uncle Brooks gave us.
Wednesday.—I had a headache, so Charles wheeled the sofa near the fire for me. Doing so, two of the legs came off. He propped it up with books, but by-and-bye I heard a sort of frizzling; it was the glue, which the fire was frying. Hastily removing the sofa, we divided it between us; Charles fell down with the end, and I got the back on my poor toes.
Thursday.—The dining-room table suddenly parted in the middle. The lamp fell on Charles's head (making him swear sadly), and I received a lovely goose, and all the gravy, in the lap of my new satin dress. That night the screws of the bed slipped in the rotten wood, and one side gave way. We came to the floor: I was sadly bruised, and Charles hurt his head, and used very strong language against the advertising wretches.
Friday.—One of the brackets of the curtain-rod broke, the curtains, rings and all, came on mamma's head, crushing her new bonnet. Getting on a footstool to dust a picture the stool broke, and I fell against the picture, breaking the glass, and cutting my forehead. The pole of a music desk came out of the stand, the candles fell and greased the carpet (which was actually beginning to lose its colour already), and the book smashed Charles's violoncello. N.B. Not so sorry about this last.
Saturday.—Moved into furnished lodgings, where we stayed until we could afford to deal with a respectable upholsterer.
IRISH AUCTIONS.
In consequence of the difficulties and disputes which have attended recent sales by auction in Ireland, under the Encumbered Estates Act, and otherwise, the Irish authorities have published an official set of conditions of sale, framed in conformity with the spirit of business in the sister country, which are, in future, to be universally adopted there. Anxious to render this Almanack of as much use as possible to the man of business, the editor has, at the last moment, found room for this document:—
CONDITIONS OF SALE BY AUCTION IN IRELAND.
I. The highest bidder to be the purchaser, unless some gentleman bids more.
II. If any dispute arises as to who was the highest bidder, the sale is to stop until the parties have fought it out: but if either combatant is killed, he shall be allowed to amend his bidding for the sake of his bereaved family.
III. If after a piece of land has been sold, it cannot be found in the estate to which it belongs, it shall be taken from the estate that lies most convenient to it; but the purchaser shall pay the owner of the latter the full price of the piece thus taken; but this purchase-money shall be laid out in improving the same. Anyhow, they must settle it between them.
IV. If a lot has been wrongly described, such misdescription shall not vitiate the sale; but compensation shall be granted as may be just. If a piece of land has been described as a house, the auctioneer shall be bound to build a house thereon with the money paid for the same: and if it is not convenient for the purchaser to pay for his purchase, the money may be borrowed out of the poor-rates. If the vendor or the poor complain of this, they must write to the newspapers; and if they can't write, more shame for them.
V. The auctioneer shall not be liable to be called out upon any pretence whatever connected with the sale now about to take place; but this condition shall in no wise prevent his giving satisfaction in regard to any other sale, or his conduct in knocking down other lots or bidders.
VI. In regard to its being insulting to ask a gentleman to show his dirty parchments, and make out titles, and all that bother, no title shall be required beyond the seller giving his word of honour that the title is as good as possible, and better. After this, if there's any awkwardness, it's a case for the Phaynix Park.
VII. If what the lawyers call "outstanding terms" can't be "got in," they must stop out.
VIII. If it shall turn out that the seller has sold property to which he was not entitled, and which belongs to somebody else, and the right owner, upon proper application, unreasonably refuses to give up possession, the trouble and expense of bringing him to a sense of what is gentlemanly conduct shall be equally divided between the seller and buyer.
IX. If the purchaser thinks he has paid too much, the balance shall be handed back to the auctioneer, to be treated as liquidated damages, that is, laid out in claret, to be drunk by all the bon fide bidders at the sale.
X. The auction duty shall not be paid at all, as it only helps to maintain English ascendancy.
XI. Should there be much starvation on the estate, or much difficulty in getting enough rent out of the tenants, part of the purchase-money shall be laid out in publishing, in the English papers, an appeal to the charitable.
XII. That none of these conditions shall be binding on anybody who disapproves of them.
PROPHETIC AND MYSTERIOUS HINTS FOR 1852.
(By our own judicial and judicious Astrologer.)
JANUARY.
Another new year! Something will probably happen before long. If it does not something else will. Look round corners as much as possible; and don't go to the end of the world, for fear of falling over the edge. Begin new undertakings which promise to be profitable. A bad month for marrying a shrew.
FEBRUARY.
Give no bills in which February is included, in respect of its being so short. Never pull your shirt collars so high as to run the risk of the nether man's catching cold. A bad month for hanging yourself—put it off. Eat as much as you can. If anybody make you a handsome present—take it, and fear not. One of your friends will cut himself shaving—seek not to know which; pry not into the secrets of destiny.
MARCH.
Never take hold of the poker by the wrong end. Go forth into the streets and gather a bushel of March dust; it is worth a king's ransom. Take it to the Goldsmiths' Hall, and they will pay you for it—(a king's ransom is 30,000l., which will be at once handed to you). Spring commences. Cut the pearl buttons off your shirts and sow them in the flower-pot; they will come up oysters. Avoid the vanities of dress, but do not go abroad without your pantaloons.
APRIL.
Lie in bed all this month for fear of being made an April fool. Many things happen in April. A good month to receive a large legacy in, but don't reject a small one. Clouds will gather in the social horizon. You will have a quarrel with your wife, which will be brought to an amicable conclusion by means of a shawl. Avoid bonnet shops. A bad month to be bankrupt in.
MAY.
A merry month. Gather May dew (query: what are you to do with it when you get it?) Dance round the maypole. On no account dance round the north pole, or the south. Get your friends to do bills—it promotes generosity and liberality, which are virtues. Your hat will be blown off—if it be windy enough, and you don't hold it on. Be obliging; give anybody who asks, free permission to run pins into anybody else—innocent amusement ought to be encouraged.
JUNE.
A bad month for your house to be burnt down—unless, indeed, it be insured for double its value, or your wife be in it. When you ride in the Park and the boys tell you to get inside the horse and draw down the blinds, don't—it's not seemly. Make money—Pass your bad half crowns. Give your clean-picked bones to the poor—charity covers a multitude of sins. If a comet appears, let it alone; and when it is tired of appearing it will disappear. If you see a ghost, tell it to stay there; and come for us, and we will go and look at it.
JULY.
Walk about in armour for fear of mad dogs. The planetary system this month will go on as usual; distrust anybody who tells you to the contrary. Be a philosopher, and have as few wants as possible—cut off your legs, and then you wont require boots, which you will find to be a saving. When you sleep in church do not snore; it is disrespectful to the establishment. If you go to the opera and drop a double-barrelled lorgnette from the fifth tier, and it cracks a man's skull below, bring an action against his representatives for the value of the glass. Make yourself comfortable.
AUGUST.
Events will take place and circumstances will happen; also things will come to pass. Beware, therefore, and trust the stars. You may have a cold in the head, and you may not. Tace is Latin for a candle, and things must be as they may. Avoid apoplexy, give no encouragement to rheumatism, and, if you are taken ill with typhus fever, don't stand it. Drink not physic slowly, and take chloroform when you're having your hair cut or sitting for your daguerreotype.
SEPTEMBER.
Go out a shooting; but shoot not the moon, unless you find it convenient. A good month for drinking beer, but avoid salts. Recollect what the wise man sayeth: a bush in the hand is worth two in the bird. Be sage, stuffed with sage. The time for travelling. If you let your moustaches grow, you will immediately begin to speak French and German. Get a passport from the beadle of your parish, visÉd by the turncock. Avoid sea-sickness by never ceasing eating and drinking when at sea. If you see the devil have nothing to say to him; he is very far from respectable; cut him.
OCTOBER.
The harvest is gathered, and the barns are full. The best month for brewing—domestic storms and natural convulsions brewing as well as porter. Get all you can out of your friends. Make love to pretty women with money. If you go to California take care you don't dig up brass for gold. Take heed, the world will come to an end some day; pay your rent if you are obliged—not otherwise. Avoid breaking your leg in three places, five of your ribs, putting your collar-bone out, and fracturing your skull.
NOVEMBER.
The month for committing suicide; avoid it, however, for yourself. Give your friends presents of rope; if you give them enough, the sage sayeth, they will hang themselves. Fogs are thick; but the wise man sees through them. Roads are muddy; but the rich man rideth in a cab. In this month your hair will grow. Do not be alarmed. Buy the Comic Almanack.
DECEMBER.
Winter commences. Bills come pouring in. Trust yet to the stars. Do the Income Tax—so saith the moral philosopher. All flesh is grass—but beef is not water-cresses. Make moral reflections, and pay no bills. A bad month for paying bills. Give no Christmas dinner; but go to some one's who does. Receive presents of turkeys, geese, pickled salmon, and cod, with oysters for sauce. Look out for Saturn in the ascendant in the house of Mars; and when you see a comet with a green tail, send an express to the astronomer royal, with a lock of your hair.
The Sun will be eclipsed the whole year round by the brilliance of the work the reader holds in his hand. Visible to all the inhabitants of Her Majesty's dominions, of the United States of America, and of every other country where English is understood.
The Moon will be eclipsed, during various portions of the seasons, at the Princess's Theatre, by a set of opposition Moons to be got up by Mr. Grieve. Visible to the audiences each night.
Jupiter has been so completely eclipsed by the crack boat of that name belonging to the Gravesend Star Company, that he has drawn in his rays in disgust, declined upon his axis, assumed a mean—in fact, a remarkably mean distance, and generally shut up shop.
Pallas will be eclipsed by Mr. Barry, whose new Palace will approach within eighteen or nineteen years of completion. Visible to the inhabitants of Westminster from dawn to dusk, and to the population generally, through any dull medium—say the Estimates.
Other Astronomical Information.
To convert Astronomical Mean Time into Mean Civil Time.—Beating being the shortest way to make mean people civil—beat time.
To find the distance of Terrestrial Objects.—Take a yard measure, and measure it. Another way, useful if the object be a window, a friend, or a public character, is to throw a stone at it, and if you hit it, you may be sure it is within a stone's throw.
To set a Sun Dial.—Dig a hole in the earth, and set it. Sun dials are, however, seldom known to thrive much. The Seven Dials in London grew up in a soil composed of old clothes, Irish, onions, Jews, and Gin; and the population is still literally celebrated for knowing what's o'clock, with occasional rectification by the police.
Directions to know the Stars.—Notice whose names are printed largest in the play-bills, and precede the largest sums in the schedule of a manager when he goes up to the Insolvent Court. Another way is to notice who play or sing most carelessly when the house is bad, or look sulky when applause doesn't come.
To calculate Longitude from the Meridian of Greenwich.—Ascertain how often a person has eaten whitebait that season.
THE NIGHTINGALE.
A charming songster of this species warbled its nightly music from a high tree in the corner of my garden. It generally began its jug-jug just after sundown, when it distinctly whistled the bass solo, "Now nurse and child are fast asleep," from Guy Mannering. The formation of the larynx prevented the lower notes from coming out with full effect, but the performance, in other respects, was perfect. Truth, however, compels me to add, that the bird did not, as has been asserted, whistle the words. The same nightingale, when he saw over the garden wall a gentleman staggering along, after a convivial party, used to whistle "We wont go home till morning," with great glee. I only observed it make a change once, when the air selected was, "Jolly companions every one."—William Kiddy, in the Gardeners' Journal.
The Height of Impudence.—Stopping a railway train to ask the Guard what o'clock it is.
THE GOLDEN AGE COMING.
(From the Sydney Morning Herald, 25th December, 1861.)
This colony is a remarkable colony. The ancient gentleman (we forget his name, and there isn't a LempriÈre nearer than Cochin China), who turned everything he touched to gold, must have called here on his way to Hades. Gold, gold, nothing but gold. Let us calmly review what Australia has done since Christmas, 1851.
Although she has separated from the mother country, it was not in anger, but only as a rich child's establishment is naturally apart from that of poor parents. We did not neglect Old England; we paid off her national debt, and we deposited in the hands of trustees (the Emperor Jullien I., King Abbott-Lawrence, and Sultan Abd-el-Kadr) a sufficient sum to render taxes in England unnecessary for two hundred years. Having thus done our duty as a child, we leave the old lady to amuse herself her own way. But we shall not forget her, and each Christmas we shall delight in presenting her with a new Fleet, a box of palaces, or some other tribute of affection.
We laid down the Cape and Algiers Railway, as also that from Gibraltar to St. Petersburgh, and the eighty thousand miles of line in India. We cut through the Isthmuses of Suez and Panama, and lengthened the grand canal of Venice to the Black Sea.
We bought up all the opera singers in the world at their own price (the largest drain our exchequer has known), and we founded the Australian Opera. Meyerbeer received 100,000l. for his opening work—Le Kangaroo, and the "Hopping Chorus" is worth the money.
We arranged a financial system for ourselves, the leading feature of which was, that there should be no fractions, no change, no bargaining (this nearly drove the women out of the colony), and no tick. The lowest price of anything was to be a guinea.
We have an electric telegraph communication between our new capital, Aureopolis, and every other metropolis in the world. Painful as it is to hear the needy creatures of other continents squabbling about miserable loans and wretched subsidies, when, perhaps, the whole sum at issue is not fifty millions, and disagreeable as it must be to regard one's acquaintance as paupers wrangling over halfpence, the lessons are not without instruction.
Such are some of the achievements of Australia. But she is not all-powerful. We have a failure to record. All her proffered treasures could not buy one of the writers in the Comic Almanack. Yet it must be done. Gird up thy loins, young nation! The rest were trifles, but here is a task worthy of thee. Thy mines of wealth against the mines of wit; for one of those priceless men thou must have. To the Diggings! to the Diggings!
—Anticipations of the Golden Age! now coming; showing the probable style of a coster=monger when that "good time" is come!!
THE GOLD IN AUSTRALIA.
[Private and confidential letter from Mr. Jemmy Bullseye, Professional Burglar, M.S.M. (Member Swell Mob), P.P.P. (Professor Pocket Picking, &c.), T.C. (Transported Convict), to Ikey Moshes, Esq., R.S.G. (Receiver of Stolen Goods), F.R.F. (First-Rate Fence), Deadman's Court, Filch Street, Whitechapel.]
Bottiney Bay, 1 April.
Giv us yer congraterlations old chap, for luck as turned at last. Thank evings I'm now a maid man, and a real transported conwict, and no mistake. Ha! ha! No more bissines—no more senter hits, nor kro bars, nor skillington keas, nor dips into pokkets with nuffin in 'em—nor puttin old ladis on the grate when 'ot, to make 'em tell vere the spoons is—no more rows with them ere Peelers, nor interwiews with the Beaks—nor no more pollis wans, nor Hold Baileys, nor Middlesects sesshuns, nor Surgeon Adamses, nor Recorders, nor Ballantines nor Clarksons. As I said afore, in one wurd, no more bissines. I'm a-coming out in the respictable line, and I'm a-goin to keep a gigg. I've made my lucky, and I can afford to pass the remaneder of my days a-doin' nuffin but enjoying on myself.
In two wurds, Ikey, I've maid my fortin. I've 5 portmanties chok full of gold. How you'd like a grab at 'em, eh? The rigglar stuff; shinin' like sufferings, and worth never so much more, bekase more purer, and no allhoy. You remember the littel Jobb for which I got into trubbel—the plate down Hackney way, which we didn't find out to be Britania Mettle till jist as it was in the meltin' pott, and the pollis had me by the choler. Well, I staid in Pentonwill too ears, and then we kum out here, a hole ship lod on us, rigglar outanouters as ever stood in a dok, and then they set us to make rods, and me and Bil Smuth, and Jerry Gibbs—him as knocked the old lady on the 'ead for pleasure, arter the bissines was over, and the swag sekured—and half-a-dozen more, was all tyed to one chane, with a lot o' sogers ready to shoot us if we layed doun our piks or spaids for a minit. But let me tell yer, as things 'as turned out, the praktise was kapital, for suddenly one mornin' there kame word, that about a dosen of miles from us, there was a bed, a rigglar bed of gold made up in the earth, and that noboddy had anythink to do but to stupe down and pik hup the peaces. By gom, Ikey, when the sogers heard this, off they cut, and set to work at the golden sand with their baggynets, and, as you may be sure, also off we kut arter them; and there we wos, the hole wak of us, konwicts and no konwicts, pickin' up the yaller metal like 1 o'clock, and mindin' nuffin else. And now we found out the hadvantage of our rod makin praktise, for, for every ounse of gold the rest piked up, we got a £. So we soon had the chane off, and, in less nor 6 wheeks I had for my share at least 50,000 lbs. worth—which, by-the-by, I am grieved to say, that disonest skoundrel, Bil Smuth, tryed to pilpher from, but a dig from the pik axe settled his ash, as so it did Jerry Gibbs's, whose and I found in my pokkits—the unprinsipaled thif, who had no more respect for reallysed property than nothink at all. And so, to make a long storey short, here I am, a-goin' to sale for Urope by the next ship with all my gold, and quite sartin of being reseaved accordin to my merrits, as weyed by the hevvyness of my Koffers.
I have hardly maid up my plans yet, but I think I'll by an andsome ouse somewere near Tyburnia—I like the name; and I'll call it either "Burglary Lodge," or "Felony Villa," or "The Fence," and I'll furnish part on it quite slap-up like the nobses; and part on it like Newgate, and part like Pentonwille, and part like the Pennytenshiary, just to keep hup a scentimental rememberance of the old Times. I'll get a Kot o' arms too. The Herralds' Offis will soon find that for me, but there must be a dark lantern in it, and a skillington kea, and for a mottar, "Sucksess to Swindlin," in a dead langwidge, which is more genteeler nor a livin one. In course I'll have an ouse-warming, when I'll ask the Rekordor of the sitty of London, and the Kommon Surgeon, and Surgeon Adams of the Middlesects, and the Kommishners of Pollis, and Dannal Wittles Arvey. I should think they'd come. I don't bear no mallis, and I'll give 'em good wittles. "Sirkmstances is altared, my Lords," I'll say after dinner, when I'm a-standing with a glass of champagn in my 'and, "And I forgive you for having sent me out to Bottiney Bay, konsidering wot's come of it, and if any of you would like to try your luck akross the water, I'll give you a letter to a hold pal of mine that worked on the same chane as me for five ears, and he'll put you hup to the time o' day if anybody will." I shood think, Ikey, as that would be a 'andsome way of doing the thing, and letting bygons be bygons. I wudn't be surprised arter that if they made me a Middlesects magistrate, or a visitin Justass, or summut o' that kind, and when I goes to a Pollis offis just for old assossiashun's sake, you'll read in the papers how the Honorable Genlmn was akkomodated with a seat on the bench beside the worthy maggistrate, Ha! ha! Ikey, the gold will do it al. I wouldn't be surprised if I get a testymonial, or if there be a subskription to raise a monyment to me—or a lot of amsouses for dekayed prigs, to be called "Bullseye Amsouses," with the names of the churchwardens of the Parritch karved over the entrance door. In course I'll keep a carridge, which is more convenient than a wan with V. R. painted on the side; and I'll have the deerest pue in the most fash'nable chapple—Parritch churches is low—and I'll shubscribe to the societies for the purtection of property and the shuppression of voice. Its wot is looked for in men in a sartin position.
Sutch then, Ikey, are my present plans. I wud ask you to my ouse warming but fear you mite not like to meet some of the Gents allooded to, you being still in the old line of bisiness, and not unkimmon well of. Howsoever, we'll have a quiet tawk when we meet, over a glas of grogg and a pype.
Yours affexndly,
JEMMY BULLSEYE.
P.S. In coorse I'll go into Parlyment, but representing nyther St. Alban's nor Harwich. No, no, dang it, not so low yet as that kums to nyther.
OUR OWN "NOTES AND QUERIES."
PIKES AND ASSES.
Mr. Samuel Flopp presents his compliments to the Editor, and begs to propound the following question:—
Mr. Flopp, passing the other day through the Camden Town Turnpike, observed written upon the gate—
"For every horse, mule, or other animal, not being an ass, the sum of 1½d."
Mr. Flopp wishes to know whether it was owing to the last reservation, that he was allowed to pass toll free.
Perhaps some of our correspondents will answer the question.
BLACK'S THE WHITE OF MY EYE.
"There is a proverbial expression, 'You can't say black is the white of my eye.' How ought a person to vary the phrase to suit his own case, supposing his eyes to be blue? An answer will oblige.
Digging in my garden, I found a flat stone with the following inscription—
Can you inform me what language this is? I have submitted the question to both Universities, and a fortune-teller in the New Cut, but I can get no satisfactory reply. I am myself inclined to think it either Phoenician, Chaldee, or ancient Cornish."
"The following very curious fragment of an epitaph is to be found in a churchyard not a hundred miles from Biggleswade:—
'Afflictions sore, long time I bore,
Physicians was in vain—'
CÆtera desunt. Can any of your readers inform me of the name and profession of the deceased, what he died of, and whether the undertaker was paid for his funeral?"
THE OPERA HABITUÉ.
You've heard of an HabituÉ—an Opera-going man—
Perhaps you sometimes try to look as like one as you can,
But, if you want a faithful sketch—correct as sketch can be,
I'll daguerreotype myself—an old HabituÉ.
And first, I don't know music—for I haven't got an ear;
And I fear I couldn't tell Jim Crow from strains by Meyerbeer;
And once I made a blunder when the band began to tune,
And asked what Costa was about, to start them off so soon.
The fact is—music bores one, but what is one to do?
It's very clear that one must try to get one's evenings through;
And so I somehow find myself professing vast delight,
And shouting "brava Grisi!"—yes—every Opera night.
I'm got up to perfection. In all that dandy place,
There's no cravat so faultless—no shirt so gay with lace;
My gibus hat—my shiny boots, there's none who see forget.
While words can't tell how tight my gloves, or huge my white lorgnette.
And, every Opera evening, I lounge into my stall,
And nod, and smile to scores—of course—HabituÉs, one and all;
And then adjust that huge lorgnette; and, grave as grave can be,
From box to box, and tier to tier, commence my scrutiny.
There's first the row of baignoires so dark, and deep, and sly;
Then the Grand Tier—the milky way—around the Opera sky.
The First tier so respectable—beloved of Russell Square,
The Second, where the artist haunts high up in middle air.
And well I know by many a sign, by toilet, and by style,
Whether or no the House be good. Spite managerial wile,
One sweep of my lorgnette, and then, I'll confidently say
Which are the boxes duly filled, and which those given away.
The curtain up—my toils commence—and loungingly I pass
From tier to tier, and box to box, myself, boots, hat and glass.
And flirt with Emily, or Kate, and chat with dear Mamma,
Or even fling myself away five minutes on Papa.
And then we talk, oh, how we talk, of pic-nics, rides, and balls;
Or quiz that lady's strange toilette down yonder in the stalls,
And wonder who the men can be in very dubious stocks,
Who've pinned the bill upon the ledge of Lady Swandown's Box.
But the last loud stirring chorus at length has died away,
And the house is up and buzzing, for the Entre'acte hath sway,
The corridors are thoroughfares—as here and there they flit
Our humming, chatting Opera world from boxes, stalls, and pit.
For now there comes the Quarter hour when everybody meets,
The cheery, chatty Quarter hour, when each some comrade greets,
The Quarter hour so terrible, when Critics deep, who sit
In solemn judgment—pass it—in the lobby near the pit.
A chattering joking conclave, that merry clever ring,
With its gossip of all passing things and scandal of the "wing,"
Deep Opera diplomacy—the last alleged sore throat;
And all the very newest, and most piquant things afloat.
And thus my evening passes in the summer and the spring,
In lorgnette astronomics, and languid listening,
In sauntering, and gossiping, and lounging up and down,
And mixing up the music with the chit-chat of the town.
Till—from the Great Soprano Queen there's nothing more to hear,
Till—the last loud orchestral crash has died upon the ear,
Till—the last lingering lady has made her last delay,
And the last lingering carriage no longer stops the way.
MR. BULL'S GLASS OF WATER.
Mr. John Bull, suddenly impressed with the excellence of water, demanded that his town mansion should forthwith be supplied.
"Bless your soul, Sir," cried nine of his servants, "the house has water enough, and very good water, brought twice a week."
"Bring me a glass of it," said Bull, and while they were fetching the glass (for John's servants are the dreariest dawdles on the face of the earth, and are as long opening a door, cleaning a passage, or doing any little job, except a money job, as the servants of Monsieur le Nez, over the way, are in throwing his whole house out of windows), Mr. Bull took up a Blue Book.
"Colourless, transparent, inodorous, and tasteless; such are the conditions of purity in water," read John. "O, here you are at last, you lazy rascal; give me the glass. What do you call this stuff, you scoundrel—pea-soup?"
"Capital water, Sir, stunning tipple, sir," said the fellow audaciously; "your steward pays me a shilling a pint for all I bring in."
"Does he!" said John, glancing across the room, to be sure that his stick was in its corner. "Where do you fetch this stuff from, tell me that?"
"Nearest place, in course, Sir. Thames-ditch, Sir."
"That all my drains run into! Take that, Sir!" roared the old gentleman, kicking him down stairs.
Another servant, smirking, ran in with another glass.
"Less colour," said John, "but smells like the end of a gas-pipe." And the bearer went over the bannisters. A third tried his luck, declaring that the water he brought came from a beautiful tank near Sadler's Wells.
"Full of live things," said John, shuddering.
A fourth rushed up, "Try this, Sir; a dodge of my own, Sir, a pipe from a tan-pit, Sir—tan very healthy."
"Tastes of animal decomp——I'll tan you, Sir," thundered John, planting his fist between the rogue's eyes, "put that in your pipe!"
Well, all the other servants came with glass after glass of dirty water; for fetching which, John Bull's steward was, they said, in the habit of paying them enormously, besides encouraging them to beat anybody who came to the house with a filter, or offered to bring cleaner water at a cheaper rate. John waxed furious, declared they were all rogues and cheats, and commanded his steward, one Wood, to contrive that he should have decent water. So Wood, who is the merriest, most goodnatured bungler in the world, proposed that they should all pour their different supplies into one great tank, which he thought would make the water pure. John Bull didn't quite see how eight quarts of dirty water would, by being mixed, make two gallons of clean; but this plan is going to be tried. It seems most likely that John will never get a Glass of Clean Water.
A Good Supply of Water—or John Bull—inundated with the various schemes & Streams, of—"water, water, every where"—
CURIOUS TRAIT OF NATIONAL MANNERS.
(Extract from the Advertising Columns of the Slickville Patriot and
Locofoco Bowie Knife.)
To be sold by Public Auction, next Wednesday, the whole contents—furniture and appurtenances—of the late Editor of this Journal's Office, consisting of—
1. Five Tomahawks (warranted).
2. Eight Colt's Revolvers (have each shot their man).
3. Two Sword-sticks.
4. Three Gouging Forks (patent).
5. Seven Nigger Whips (loaded with lead, and highly recommended).
6. A Horse Whip (same with which Editor said he flogged General Dodge).
7. Another Horse Whip (same with which General Dodge said he flogged Editor). These two will be sold in one lot.
8. A Cask of Tar—good for Abolitionists.
9. The Feathers out of Four Feather-Beds—ditto, ditto.
10. Curious Recipes for Brandy Cocktail, Whisky Stingers, and Gin Trumps.
11. A Pair of Bloomer's Pantilettes.
12. A Bad Dollar, and
13. A Worn-out Pen.
Sale to commence at noon, and no revolvers allowed till a quarter past.
TABLE OF THE PROBABLE DURATION OF LIFE.
(The number 20 being taken as representing the chance
of living longest).
| Vegetarian | 5 |
| Fox-hunter | 15 |
| Soldier in the Line | 9 |
| Guardsman | 19¾ |
| Railway Traveller | 12 |
| Ditto, on the Midland Counties' Railway | 1¼ |
| HabituÉ of the Legitimate Drama | ¼ |
| Husband of a "Bloomer" (unless he runs away from her) | 1 |
| Member of Parliament | 15 |
| Reader of Parliamentary Debates | 5 |
| Reader of the Comic Almanack[9] | 20 |
THE RIDDLER.
The following queries are proposed for solution by some of our ingenious readers. Answers must be enclosed to the publisher on or before the first of April next. Fifty copies of the Comic Almanack (equivalent to a permanent provision for the receiver for life, with handsome reversions to his posterity), will be presented to any one who shall answer the whole correctly. We might have hesitated in making so stupendous an offer, but felt that the world required for the year 1852 some universal excitement, rather superior to that occasioned by the Exhibition of 1851.
CHARADE.
My first young ladies do at balls,
My second will destroy St. Paul's,
My whole on Temple-Bar was seen,
The day Prince Albert wed the Queen.
ANOTHER.
The earth did my first, and the sky did my second,
When the Census throughout the three kingdoms was reckoned,
When the sky does my first, and the earth does my whole,
My second will join the Equator and Pole.
A THIRD.
Miss Rose gave my first to my second (her lover),
My third made Miss Rose what you'll please to discover.
REBUS.
An electrical agent, an over-ripe pear, a wooden leg, Mr. Dickens' best novel, half a dragon, a scapegrace, a young frog, an easy-chair, a French divine, a celebrated map, part of a lady's dress, a London club, and the sixth of a Knight of the Garter. The initials describe what the reader is, the finals what he may be if he likes, and the middle letter what he can never be, though his father was, and his child must be.
ANOTHER.
A man, a can, a fan, Ann, to scan, a plan—their equivalents represent the four elements in agitation, and spelt backwards, describe the most pleasing object in the Great Exhibition. Omitting Ann and the fan, the equivalents prophesy what theatre will next be burned down.
ARITHMETICAL PUZZLE.
I am engaged to a young lady, who will not tell me her age, but says that if I measure her arm (which is a very pretty one) above the elbow, and multiply the number of inches by the number of the Royal Family (in 1851), and then divide by the number of perfection, I shall discover her age. As I know a shorter way, I hand over the puzzle to my readers.
CONUNDRUMS.
What is that which if you stamp upon it, appears above your head, and if you blow upon it, vanishes?
Why is the late Lord Mayor like the Crystal Fountain?
Why must John Knox have been the last man in the world to eat a lobster?
Why is the Earl of Zetland (the Grand Freemason of England), when he wears a waistcoat which his family think unbecoming to him, like a postage stamp from which the adhesive stuff has been licked off by a tortoiseshell kitten?
If you went through the Lowther Arcade in company with the inventor of the Marine Telegraph, and saw an old lady's back hair coming down, why would you be obliged to ask him to tell her of it in Arabic or Chinese?
If Peeping Tom of Coventry were to put on the Bloomer Costume, and be carried in a sedan chair, by two black men, from the Marble Arch to the Menai Bridge, why would he resemble Mr. Macaulay, on a snowy day, and with an achromatic telescope in his left hand, taking shelter about eleven o'clock in a pastrycook's shop anywhere in the City?
ANAGRAMS.
Confidence shaken. Ah!
He made a mull.
Terms—give place.
Trusted, time past. Yes.
O 'xtortionate.
Not worth salt.
Sick? O sans doubt
Envy, scoffs, vile O.
White Brow in mirror.
Do come in Broughams.
More bigot. No.
Rantipole, he!
Nice scented veil.
Who more smart?
Silly, him in Guards.
Neat in the calf.
TRANSPOSITIONS.
Transpose "Jos. Paxton, Knight, Gardener," and you may describe what he would have been if Mrs. Graham had smashed the transept with her balloon.
A transposition of one of the Prince of Wales's titles will give the three prettiest Christian names for ladies.
You may transpose a line in the second verse of the National Anthem, until you make something which Dr. Bull little dreamed of when composing it.
FINAL BLAZE OF GLORY.
Take the year of the Plague, and the month of the Fire,
Take Phoebus-Apollo, with hand on his lyre,
Take a Jew's famous eye, and the eye of the Pope,
And a building where foolish young novices mope,
And a sprat (but alive), and the name of a town,
And a greenhorn by sharpers done awfully brown,
A tree without bark, and a play without plot,
And that isle where as yet Uncle Sam reigneth not,
Take a maid who's had warning, a gun without powder,
The word that makes Englishmen prouder and prouder,
Pick from each but one letter—it lies in the middle,
You'll find what you'll be when you find out this riddle.
OUR ADVERTISING COLUMN.
DEPRESSION IN THE LEGAL PROFESSION.—In consequence of the opening of the County Courts, the undersigned begs to state that his charges will be found strictly moderate, and if his speeches be not approved of, the money will be returned. Come early. This is the shop for cheap Law! Now's your time! No reasonable offer will be refused.
JOHN TICK, Clockmaker to the King of Loo Choo (by appointment), and Watchmaker to the heir apparent of the King of the Cannibal Islands (by appointment), begs to call attention to his Ne-plus-ultra never-say-die Watch. Goes for ever without winding up—the glass can't break—it strikes with a cathedral tone, and plays the Row Polka, and the Dead Waltz in Saul, every alternate quarter of an hour—never needs cleaning, and the general idea of the whole is so bright, that the dial can always be seen distinctly in the dark. N.B. This Watch would have carried off a Council medal, had it not been for the maker not sending it to the Exhibition.
FURNISHED APARTMENTS, within five minutes' walk of the Bank, the Horse Guards, the Lambeth Union, and the Small Pox Hospital. The lodger would have the use of the mangle. Partial Board if required. Half a slice of bread for breakfast, and the run of the cruet-stand for dinner. No attendance, but the lodger will be allowed to ring the bell as much as he pleases. Apply to Mr. Smith, London.
TO THE BENEVOLENT.—An appeal is confidently made on behalf of a Young Gentleman, whose cruel and unnatural father allows him only £100 a year until he does something for himself. The merest trifle—30s. a-week—will be thankfully received, and gratuities above £20 will be acknowledged by a dinner at Verey's, to which the donor will not be asked, but at which his health will be drank. Address Hex Why Zed, Cyder Cellars.
TO PARENTS AND GUARDIANS.-The thinnings of a rough young Birch Wood are on Sale. Also a cargo of Bamboos, just arrived from the Mauritius. Tawse of superior Leather, with the ends of the tails carefully burnt, are also constantly on Sale. Apply at Floggum Hall, Clapham.
TO THOSE AFFLICTED WITH DEAFNESS.—The Advertisers offers comfortable Board and Lodging to Ladies and Gentlemen suffering as above, in his own private family circle. The great advantage to be found in the arrangement will be, that neither he, his wife, his eight daughters, or his seven sons, ever say, or can be expected to say, anything.
Worth hearing—Address to the Office of this Newspaper.
FRENCH IN A QUARTER OF AN HOUR, AND GERMAN IN TWENTY MINUTES.—Cram's NEW Method. "Do you understand French?" "I understand it, but do not speak it." How often do we hear this reply. Professor Cram assures his Friends and intending Pupils that in fifteen minutes he will make them speak French as perfectly as they understand it.
OUR OWN PRESIDENT OF FRANCE.
The shadow of a coming event has fallen upon the opposite page and stayed there. It represents the triumphal entry into Paris of M. Jullien, chosen as President of the Republic, Leader of its Armies, Composer of its strifes, Conductor of its Bands, and in general, National First Fiddle.
The French having tried all manner of governments and all classes of rulers, and not liking any of them, will naturally, in their pursuit of harmony, turn to one of its most celebrated professors. M. Jullien, on the 1st of April, will issue two public manifestoes, expressive of his political creed:—"The Universal Suffrage Polka, with ballot-box and kettledrum accompaniment;" and "The LibertÉ, EgalitÉ, et FraternitÉ Quadrilles," in which all the second and third fiddles will play the first parts, the piccolos will produce the sound of ophicleides, and any instrument will be at liberty to play anything it pleases; all this in token of the equalization of society, and the freedom of action to be accorded under the new rÉgime. The time in which this Quadrille will be arranged is the Good Time Coming, which may be reckoned a very slow movement, seeing how long it takes to arrive.
These magnificent political morceaux having been duly considered by the people of France, whistled by all the boys, and danced to at all the casinos—the cry of "Jullien for President" will become all but universal. The ElysÉe will be frantic, the Orleanists furious, and the Legitimists in despair. Louis Napoleon's friends will meditate a coup d'État, for the purpose of securing all the silver plate in France; but which will be defeated by the counter operations of a conspiracy for the abolition of taxes, and for giving every Frenchman, above the age of twenty-one and untainted by crime, a salary of 5000 francs per annum, to be paid quarterly by the government. In the midst of these conflicting movements of party, the grand day of election will take place, and the following will be the state of the poll:—
| Jullien | 9,999,999 |
| Louis Napoleon | 1 |
| Prince de Joinville | 1 |
| Duke de Chambord | 1 |
Each of the three latter gentlemen having voted for himself. France will be immediately thrown into a state of rapturous delight, and the new President will land at Boulogne from four steamboats, the band playing the Row Polka, which will be adopted, till they get another, as the national anthem of France. What the triumphal entry into the capital will be, is made manifest on the opposite page. Welcomed by the universal voice of Paris, in one grand concert monstre—the democrats the basses, the quondam Buonapartists the tenors, the quondam Legitimists the counter tenors, and all their wives and daughters the sopranos and contraltos—then there will commence in France the harmonious reign of M. Jullien—the President without a precedent.
The Triumphal procession of the new President of the French (MonŠr-Jullien) with entire new Politics & Polkas!!!
