"Well, Sir! it is my duty to inquire into your intentions towards
Miss 1853."
Taking into consideration the hourly increasing inquisitiveness of the Age, and, above all, the restless desire to pry into the secrets of Futurity, as evinced by the feverish agitation, on all sides, of vitally important questions, such as the following:—
What is to be done for the people?
Who's who in 1853?
What next?—
we have resolved on considerable improvements in the Prophetic department of our publication.
This feature indeed may be said to have been (in proof of which we are going to say it) hitherto the only unsatisfactory one of our otherwise complete work—having been confined to the prediction (in six neatly printed pages at the commencement of the yearly volume) of the particular week-days on which each day of the month would fall; the number of days to be contained in each month; the periodical changes of the moon, &c., &c.—predictions which have invariably been verified; but, from the comparatively uninteresting nature of the events foretold—considered as a supply to the enormous demand for Prophetic Intelligence alluded to above—may be open to a charge of inadequacy.
For the Future we intend to be more explicit as to it; and will foretell events of a more general nature, calculated to set at rest all the throbbing questions of the day, to which an answer will oblige—only stipulating that, in the case of any prediction not appearing to be satisfactorily fulfilled, the reader will withhold his judgment till such time as he shall have purchased our next number.
Our extra amount of foresight has enabled us to present the reader with sixteen pages of matter more than he has been in the habit of receiving. The usual blank pages for the purposes of journal and cash entries will be no longer necessary, the accounts of the year being already made up for him by ourselves.
JANUARY.
On the 1st of January, two elderly gentlemen (having dined together on the previous day) will meet in New Oxford Street. One will poke the other in the stomach, and remark that he has not seen him since last year. The other will reply that it is very odd; but that he is glad to find his friend so little altered. Both elderly gentlemen will laugh and adjourn for something to drink.
About the 11th a rapid thaw may be expected.
Several young gentlemen home for the holidays being informed that if they eat so much Twelfth Cake they will make themselves too ill to go back to school on Monday—there will be an extra demand for that article.
FEBRUARY.
A country gentleman will be attracted to Westminster by an erroneous conception of the Queen's method of opening Parliament in person.
The rival opera houses will open for the season. Increased exertions will be made on both sides to secure the public patronage.
On the 14th one of our readers will meet with a severe disappointment in love.
Winkinson cannot stand this sort of thing any longer. He has made up his mind, and will go to Australia—with the best of them!
The materials for gold-washing, however, come expensive, and some time is necessarily occupied in Winkinson's getting a supply.
JANUARY.
January derives its name from the Roman deity Janus. It is the first month of the year—following December, and taking precedence of February. It contains thirty-one days.
We have been induced to make the above remarks by the conviction that no work, however brilliant, has a chance of success in the present day, unless containing a certain amount of really sound and valuable information. Considering we have established our powers in that line triumphantly, we will proceed to foretell the principal events of the month.
On second thoughts though, the month is so absurdly near at hand, and the events themselves will so soon happen, that it is hardly worth while. It has even occurred to us that it would be an insult to our readers—the very notion of which makes our blood run cold! Of course, under the circumstances, we cannot think of anything of the kind.
Directions for Beginning the New Year Well.—Go out to dinner on the 31st of December. Select the best house you know for the purpose. Eat and drink of the best, and spend the evening cheerfully. See the new year in, and accept your host's offer of a bed. Breakfast with the family; be in excellent health and spirits, and have a legacy left you.
Family Receipts.—Those given by the landlord on the 26th ultimo are the most appropriate to the month, and should be taken care of in case of accidents.
To avoid Chopped Hands.—Have your meat properly jointed by the butcher, and don't attempt to chop it yourself.
SCRAPS OF INFORMATION,
USEFUL AND ORNAMENTAL,
(The latter through the kind assistance of Mr. H. G. Hine.)
CHRONOLOGICAL NOTES FOR THE YEAR 1853.
Golden Number, or Cycle of the Moon, 11.
Cycle of the Sun, 14.
Epact, 20.
Dominical Letter, B.
Julian Period, 6565.
Septuagesima Sunday, Jan. 22.
Shrove Sunday, Feb. 22.
Ash Wednesday, Feb. 9.
Easter Sunday, March 27.
Whit Sunday, May 15.
Trinity Sunday, May 22.
Advent Sunday, Nov. 27.
ECLIPSES OF THE SUN AND MOON IN 1853.
June 6.—Total Eclipse of the Sun, invisible.
June 20.—Partial Eclipse of the Moon, invisible.
November 30.—Total Eclipse of the Sun, invisible.
The Ceremony of Her Majesty going in State to Open Parliament will take place as usual—these expensive Pageants being calculated to give Employment to a large class of the Industrial Population.
FEBRUARY.
An influential inhabitant of a provincial borough will take a party of friends with him to the House of Commons, to show them how intimate he is with the new member, whose return to Parliament he was mainly instrumental in effecting, and who has professed the greatest attachment to him and his family. He will lie in wait (bidding his friends to look on) in the strangers' lobby for the new member. He will see the new member entering the building with conscious dignity. He will rush at him with extended hand, addressing him by name. The new member will suddenly see somebody he wants to speak to, and rush madly away in an opposite direction. The influential inhabitant will return to his provincial borough with altered politics.
On the 14th, exactly 1,098,276 valentines will be delivered in the United Kingdom.[10] Out of these, 9,765,007 will commence with "The rose is red, the violet's blue;" 6,000,821 will be written on sugar-paper and sealed with thimbles; 1,098,275 will contain faults of orthography and syntax; 890,782 will be illegibly directed; and 3 prepaid.
News will arrive of the fitting out of an American squadron (by private enterprise) for the invasion of England—the grounds of attack being that the island was discovered, some centuries back, by a Roman ancestor of Mr. Julius CÆsar Chollop (of Connecticut, U.S.), and by right should become the property of his descendants.
MARCH.
The formation of volunteer rifle corps, with a view to the protection of life and property, will be strongly recommended.
The rate of cab fares of the metropolis will continue at 4s. 6d. per mile. Drivers, as heretofore, will be encouraged to enforce its payment from a parsimonious British public.
Greenwich Fair will present the usual endless variety of intellectual recreations.
APRIL.
GREAT SELLS OF THE FIRST.
A gentleman, invited out to dinner, will wait patiently in the belief that his tailor really means to send home his new coat by four o'clock.
The same gentleman's bootmaker will wait patiently in the belief that his debtor really means to call and settle that little matter by four o'clock.
The printer's boy will be sent to our residence to ask for copy.
Our boy will be despatched on an errand to the printer's to inquire for proofs.
The strictest discipline will be enforced among the Railway Companies' officials.
He hears, moreover, that the gold lies twenty-five feet below the surface of the soil, and thinks he had better try if he could dig a hole that deep. He takes up two flag stones in the back kitchen, and makes the experiment.
Nor is he quite sure that his constitution will stand living in a tent. He judges it expedient to contract for a month's residence with a distinguished Egyptian family on Blackheath, by way of probation.
Great Irish FÊte on St. Patrick's Day.
MARCH.
An Irish FÊte will take place on St. Patrick's Day—established in successful emulation of the annual Scottish FÊte in Holland Park.
The following national sports will form a portion of the programme:—
Throwing the Hatchet,
Drawing the Long Bow,
Shooting the Moon,
And (in effigy, out of consideration for Saxon prejudices)
There will also be a general run of excisemen and tax-gatherers for their lives. Prizes will be awarded, which the losers will be at liberty to contest with the conquerors after their distribution.
On Easter Monday, Greenwich Fair will offer its attractions to an intellectual British public. A great falling off will be observed in this time-honoured festival. The shows will be found stripped of their brightest pantomimic and melodramatic ornaments: but Richardson will not give up the ghost!
Parliamentary business will be suspended for the Easter vacation. Much curiosity exists as to what statesmen do with themselves on such occasions. A slender middle-aged gentleman, of Jewish aspect, with an immense quantity of glossy ringlets, will be seen enjoying three sticks a-penny in the park on Easter Monday. A much shorter gentleman, wearing a pasteboard nose, and blowing a penny trumpet, will be robbed of his handkerchief, in the same locality, whilst getting into a round-about, in company with an elderly gentleman in plaid inexpressibles and a retroussÉ nose. That handkerchief will be found marked J. R. with a coronet. For once, we decline being definite, and say nothing.
Capital First of April Joke. Emigration Agents persuade intending Emigrant that they are showing him the way to Australia.
APRIL.
The excellent working of the convict system will be summarily displayed in Australia. The convicts, by a decisive coup, will succeed in obtaining the upper hand. The colonial executive will be vanquished and replaced by a provisional government on an entirely new principle. A new and original code of laws will be organized, by which honesty will be made criminal, and rascality rewarded. No man will be allowed to claim any property, unless he can prove that he has stolen it, and no documents whatever will be considered binding except forgeries. The Gold Fields will be at the disposal of the government, who will grant licenses (to be paid for in counterfeit coin) for the assassination and plunder of the individuals who have been sent out (officially) to rob the diggers.
Emigration will, however, continue unchecked. Labour will be at an incredible premium. £400 a year will be refused by a groom, because he is expected to attend to the stable, and refused the use of the piano. Desertion in the army will be carried to such an extent that Lord Hardinge himself will be compelled to mount guard at Folkstone, to keep out the French invasion—his only hope of the safety of the country being derived from the knowledge that all the soldiers of the Emperor Napoleon III. have deserted too, and that that potentate is constitutionally opposed to the ordeal of single combat. There will be no policemen left. The magistrates themselves will be compelled to assume the uniform in case of any malefactors remaining in the country. Mr. Norton's beat will be Westminster Bridge; that of Mr. Broderip, Vauxhall Road and its environs; whilst the safe custody of the Borough will be entrusted to the vigilance of Mr. A'Beckett.
MAY.
At about noon on the day succeeding the Derby race, several gentlemen will call at a popular betting office, and will be surprised to find that the proprietor and clerks have not come yet.
The portrait of a gentleman will be exhibited at the Royal Academy.
Additional accommodation will be afforded for the hanging of pictures.
JUNE.
The international copyright treaty with France having come into action, several dramatic authors will be thrown out of employment.
The umbrella manufacturers of the metropolis will felicitate themselves on the prospect of a brisk demand for their merchandise.
The omnibus drivers, blasÉs to the excitement of unchecked racing on level ground, will avail themselves of the repairs in Fleet Street for the purpose of a steeple chase.
He is also nervous about the sea voyage. There can be no harm in a trip as far as the Nore, to set him all right on his sea legs.
There is no use in doing things hurriedly. Winkinson intended starting by the next packet, but he has just learnt that it is impossible to stand the fatigues of the diggings without drinking an enormous quantity of peach brandy, by way of fortification. It would be madness to commence the journey till he has seasoned himself a little to that sort of thing.
N.B. Beards are worn at the diggings. Winkinson has allowed his to grow, and, in consequence, forfeited his situation.
The Members of a "Crack" Regiment will behave in a Gallant and Dashing Manner.
MAY.
The Derby.—Our own Prophecy.
After the announcement of our prophetic intentions, the most thrilling anxiety will doubtless exist in the sporting world, to know what we have to say on this important subject. To oblige so large and so respectable a class of our readers, we have given it our closest attention.
The only matter of any importance connected with the Derby, we decline saying anything about at all, is the name of the winner. This comparatively slight reservation is made solely from a disinclination to interfere with vested interests.
On the great day, Members of Parliament will insist upon a holiday, claiming it as their right as Britons. The Right Honourable Mr. Disraeli will remark that it is all Race.
The members of a crack regiment will amuse themselves on their return from Epsom, by throwing brickbats, vitriol, &c. at the foot passengers. The blame will be laid on a respectable stockbroker, who will be imprisoned for the offence, the military gentlemen proving an alibi. A weak-minded young ensign of the party having expressed some regret that the innocent should suffer, and hinted that the real offenders ought to give themselves up like men—will be cashiered, with a severe reprimand from the commanding officer, for his want of esprit de corps and true gentlemanly feeling.
Several shop tills and betting-office stools will be found vacant on settling day.
Turf Maxim.—Never look a gift horse in the mouth without taking care of your fingers.
A New Picture will be purchased by the Trustees of the National Gallery for £40,000, and will attract Great Attention.
JUNE.
Balloon ascents on a scale of peril hitherto unattempted will be the features of this month. Madame Poitevin will go up from Cremorne Gardens attached to the bottom of the car of the Globe Balloon by six penn'orth of wafers only. The veteran Green, by the announcement of his 8000th ascent, suspended by warranted unsafe cords, will prove that, in spite of his vast age and experience, he is not yet old enough to know better.
A gentleman from one of the East-end gardens will be indicted by the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals—for attempting an ascent on a live donkey. The Magistrate will dismiss the case, very properly, by sending both parties to the pound together.
The principles of aËrial navigation will not yet be discovered. A man of consummate genius, however, will turn the invention of the balloon to considerable account. He will hire one as a family residence in order to dodge the Income Tax. He will send down ironical messages to the commissioners by means of parachutes.
The usual cheap excursion trips will commence for the season—the competition between companies leading to still further reduction of fares. Passengers will be booked through to Paris and back, first class for eighteenpence (half the fare to be refunded in case of sea-sickness); with the privilege of speaking to the man at the wheel; hotel expenses for a week; the use of a courier; tickets for all the balls at the Tuileries; instruction in the French language; the cross of the Legion of Honour; and the right of smuggling.
JULY.
The air being charged with electricity, all wives of well-regulated minds will insist on their husbands promising not to ride in any omnibus unprovided with a lightning conductor.
The great demand for sherry-cobblers will completely exhaust the metropolitan supply of straw. Livery-stable keepers will be driven to singular expedients for the nocturnal accommodation of their lodgers.
The demand for whitebait will be unusually brisk at Greenwich.
AUGUST.
The wild sports of Smithfield market being abolished, there will be comparatively little doing in the accident ward of St. Bartholomew's Hospital.
Not that it matters to your poor wife, but if you had the feelings of a man, you might see that the dear children are dying for a little sea air.
You will naturally wish to prove that you have the feelings of a man, and will treat the dear children to a little.
The thing is to keep your gold when you have got it: there are so many unprincipled characters about the diggings. Winkinson, anxious to test his powers of defending his life and property, visits a suspicious neighbourhood after dark with two sovereigns in his pocket.
By the way, if he doesn't start till next month, he will get out to Australia in the most beautiful season of the year—and first impressions are everything. Winkinson will make himself comfortable and devote a month to his friends.
A Distinguished Philanthropist will institute a Charity for the Providing of Dogs in Humble Circumstances with Muzzles.
JULY.
July will be a very hot month. Several cases of hydrophobia will occur. In each instance the dog will be killed as soon as he has bitten a sufficient number of people to amount to a conviction. The theory of prevention, by muzzling or chaining up, will be suggested by many people, but will continue to be disregarded, as entirely opposed to the spirit of the British Constitution.
A terrible act of injustice will be committed. A very sensible dog indeed will be killed as mad—for refusing to drink a drop of Thames water.
The Emperor Napoleon III. will issue a decree fixing the number of dishes to be contained in the dinner of every Frenchman who, after so many months of an enlightened and paternal government, may be able to afford one; the quality of pomatum to be used for his whiskers; and the number of antibilious pills he may take in the course of the week.
The Humane Society will be very active. Baths and wash-houses will be instituted for the benefit of individuals who may have been imprudent enough to bathe in the Serpentine.
M. Jullien will be engaged at the Surrey Zoological Gardens for a series of Concerts d'EtÉ. The feature of the season will be an entirely new set of quadrilles, entitled Les BÊtes, in which (in addition to the usual performers) all the animals of the menagerie will be introduced. It will make a very great noise indeed. As none of the animals will be muzzled or chained up, several members of the orchestra may be expected to make their last appearance on the occasion.
In Consideration of the Extreme Heat of the Weather, the usual strict Dress Regulations of the Opera will be suspended.
AUGUST.
Several Parliamentary reporters will begin to let their moustaches grow, from which the speedy close of the session may be expected.
The metropolis will be threatened with a fearful amount of sickness. Children, hitherto the models of rude health, will be discovered by their anxious mammas to be looking pale. Husbands who never had a day's illness in their lives (and are in the habit of boasting to that effect) will be assured by their better halves that if they continue to stick so closely to business, they will be dead in a month—and with so many depending on them, they should show some regard for their precious healths. They themselves (the poor wives) are used to suffering; but even they would like to be spared for a short time, if only for the sake of their families. It will also be discovered that, being out of town, and having no appearance to keep up, you can live at the seaside for next to nothing; so that it will be a downright saving.
The heat of the weather will increase in intensity. Considerable modifications of the national costume will be found necessary. The fashions of the month (male) will be confined to a gauze shirt and a pair of light crochet inexpressibles.
An astute theatrical manager will pocket a considerable sum by announcing—"Glorious unsuccess! Anything but crowded houses!! Not more than three people in the pit!!!" Large numbers will flock to the establishment in hopes of coolness and ventilation, and will be refused their money back.
SEPTEMBER.
One of our married readers will leave home for a couple of days' shooting, promising faithfully to send his wife some birds.
He will keep his promise faithfully.
You will meet your Oxford Street tailor on the pier at Boulogne, but will not recognise him, albeit the inefficacy of the British code on an alien soil would enable you to do so with impunity.
OCTOBER.
In the dearth of Parliamentary intelligence, the newspaper reader will be startled by the appearance of an enormous gooseberry!
He will, moreover, be interested in the remarkable longevity of three old gentlemen resident in Stoke Pogis Workhouse, whose united ages amount to 190 years; and in the singular coincidence of their all three having been born in the same hemisphere.
He will also be induced to remark upon the peculiar mildness of the season. One of the phenomena attendant on which will be a shower of frogs.
The fact is, Winkinson has been going it rather, and the idea of commencing three months' voyage in such a shaky state is out of the question. It isn't every day a man leaves his mother country, and when there's no prospect of your seeing each other again for years, it is certainly excusable.
You must consider that Winkinson's grandmother brought him up, and in the ordinary course of things she can't last long, and his farewell must be a final one. It would be downright cruelty not to spend a month with the old lady previous to his departure.
SEPTEMBER.
Several genteel establishments will be closed, the blinds drawn down, and the drawing-room furniture enveloped in brown holland. In answer to inquiries, the visitor will be informed that the family has left town for Baden-Baden, Palermo, the Continent, or Brighton. Baden-Baden is a small watering-place on the coast of Kent, known to the inhabitants as Ramsgate; Palermo is an adjacent settlement, familiarly termed Margate; "the Continent" and "Brighton" are synonyms for the two-pair back, with the use of the attics for sleeping apartments.
The annual Scottish fÊte will take place in Holland Park. Several distinguished chieftains will appear in the national undress. An attempt will be made by some energetic female missionaries to distribute Bloomer tracts among the assembled Celts, and bring them to a sense of their trouserless position—but will not be attended with any great success. In order to eclipse the daring achievements of former years, a magnificent prize will be offered to any Scot who will perform the herculean feat of returning to his own country. There will be no candidates.
All London being at the seaside, there will be a greater quantity of donkeys seen on the sands of Brighton and Ramsgate than usual. Speculators on the Chain Pier will realize large fortunes by letting out telescopes to hire during the hours devoted to bathing by the ladies.
On and before the 29th, the great question of Tenant Right will be set at rest. The tenant, generally speaking, will remove his goods in the night, and leave the key (not wishing to deprive the landlord of his property) in the door. The tenant will be—all Right!
IT NEVER REIGNS BUT IT BORES.
The most inexplicable Atmospheric Phenomena will be discovered by a distinguished "savant" on his way Home from a Meeting of the Scientific Body to which he belongs.
OCTOBER.
A great many things will happen in October on various days of the month, at different hours of the day, whose influence will be felt in numerous quarters of the globe. Nothing, however, of sufficient importance to be noticed in this department of our publication will take place. Should anything of the kind inadvertently transpire, it shall be faithfully noticed in our next number. We cannot possibly say fairer.
The fact is, October is a very uninteresting month. It takes place at the very slowest period of the year. It comes after the excitement of quarter-day, and before we have begun to trouble ourselves about winter. Nothing whatever is seasonable to it, as it belongs to no season whatever. Nothing can be done with it, and anything will do for it. We will therefore do nothing whatever.
Theatrical anecdote (quite good enough for October).—We overheard a stage-manager apply to a gentleman who was just going on to the stage to represent the Ghost in "Hamlet," the singularly inappropriate exhortation of "Now, then, old fellow, look alive!"
Aphorism for Emigrants who have paid their Passage-money.—There is many a slip between the tip and the ship.
NOVEMBER.
One of the great National Theatres will be opened for the dÉbÛt of a distinguished tragedian from the provinces.
The dignitaries of St. Paul's Cathedral will avail themselves of the rush of visitors on Lord Mayor's day to turn an honest penny.
The most appropriate additions will be made to the Lord Mayor's procession.
DECEMBER.
The most elegant and appropriate objects will be suggested by advertising shopkeepers as Christmas presents.
An enthusiast for the manners and customs of his ancestors will burn the Yule Log.
An individual of great mechanical acquirements will fairly earn the 200l. offered by Messrs. Chubb, as a prize to any one who will open one of their patent locks.
At last Winkinson has taken his passage, and got his luggage on board. The ship starts at half-past four in the morning. This, however, is no reason why he should not enjoy a parting glass with his friends, who have come down from London on purpose to see him off.
All things considered, Winkinson is very comfortable where he is, and doesn't think he'll go.
On the Fifth of November, a Gross Insult will be offered to a Gentleman suffering from Influenza.
Servant Girl (loq.) "If you please, sir, here's some boys at the door want to know if you'll be good enough to remember the poor Guy."
NOVEMBER.
We candidly confess that we are again somewhat thrown back in our prophecies—November being generally a month in which it is difficult to see your way clearly.
We have not, however, entirely lost our way. On the 5th, all foreign refugees wearing beards and extraordinary hats will find that England does not offer that safe asylum from persecution they had been led to imagine. They had better keep out of the way, for fear of being arrested, or, as the familiar Saxon expresses it, "smugged," in order that political and religious intolerance may be displayed in the most awful Guys! The wearers of ponchos, tartans, wide-awakes, and railway rugs, will incur similar perils.
A calamitous fire will take place in the pocket of a young gentleman who has incautiously been entrusted with sixpence, which he has laid out in squibs. The young gentleman will be very much put out indeed.
There will be a heavy fog on the 9th. The guardian angel of London will kindly throw a veil over the metropolis, so as to conceal as much as possible a pageant calculated to give a very contemptible idea of city intelligence.
High Water at London Bridge in November may be ascertained by calculating the cubic space occupied by the thousands who are induced by the national complaint of the spleen to throw themselves into the river during this dispiriting month.—From a French Serious Almanack.
DECEMBER.
This month will be characterized by the general issuing of dinner invitations to dine all classes, exclusive of those to whom a dinner is really an object.
On Christmas Eve, Watkins will bring several friends home with him to partake of egg-flip, assuring them that he always makes egg-flip on Christmas Eve, because his father did so before him, and there is nothing like keeping up those good old customs. The egg-flip will be made—its component parts being table beer, gin, butter, eggs, sugar, nutmeg, and other bilious materials. The friends will be compelled to drink an immense quantity of it, and, when quite ill, will be dismissed by the host calling on Heaven to bless them, and wishing them a merry Christmas. The friends will think Watkins the best fellow in the world, and not see for a moment the bitter mockery of his parting wish.
The Sowster family will spend Christmas Day admirably. Old Sowster likes to have all his family about him on this occasion, that they may be cheerful and united, without the interference of strangers, at least once a year. He will go to sleep immediately after dinner, and not wake up till supper time. Jack and Bob Sowster, disgusted at having had to refuse so many nice invitations, because the old boy insisted on it, will sulk for the whole day. The Misses Sowster will pick quarrels with them, having nobody else's brothers to talk to in a more agreeable manner.
Other people will spend Christmas in a more jovial and agreeable manner. We will for one; and we are sure that the intelligent reader, holding this volume in his (or her) hand, will for another.
MORE RAILWAY ASSURANCE,
We have received official information respecting a new bill about to be brought into Parliament, for the protection of Railway Companies. The following are among the clauses enacted:—
That the directors of any company announcing the departure of a train at any particular time, may start it an hour later—or two hours earlier—or when they like—or not at all.
That trains announced to contain third-class carriages shall consist exclusively of first-class carriages; and that any passengers made to wait by these arrangements, shall be compelled to pay for the use of the waiting-room.
That it shall be legal for the officials of any company to stop a train when half-way towards its destination, and refuse to take the passengers on till they have paid their fares over again—in which case the engine-driver need not proceed unless it suits him.
That in case of collisions, all injury done to the line, carriages, &c. shall be made good by the passengers—the train having been run for their accommodation. In case of fatal accidents, the directors may come upon the representatives of the deceased parties for damages, as compensation for the loss of traffic likely to be caused by the report of such unpleasant affairs.
That no passenger shall exercise any control whatever over his own luggage; and that no director, chairman, station-master, policeman, guard, porter, engine-driver, or stoker in any of the companies' employ, shall be responsible for anything whatever.
AN AUSTRALIAN ECLOGUE.
"The Pastoral, as a feature in English poetry, has long ceased to exist. The Arcadian characteristics, however, of our Australian colonies—recently brought to light—afford every excuse for its revival. Pope says something very clever about pastorals in connection with Theocritus, for which see his works, and find out the passage, if possible. A great many other writers have alluded to the same subject."—(See British Museum Catalogue, Vol. 1 to 398.)
Hail, gentle shepherd! thou whose only care
Has been, for so much by the month or share,
To tend the playful flock through plain and thicket—
(Of course, I mean since you obtained your ticket)—
And ne'er with sorrow moaned along the vale:
I beg your pardon, shepherd, I said "hail!"
Shepherd, you did; you needn't speak so loud;
You seem to be of your distresses proud,
And take of me a most mistaken view;
But stop a minute—have some kangaroo?
Shepherd, I thank you; take a pinch of snuff.
I'm somewhat peckish, though it's rather tough.
A little mustard—what you had to say—
I'm all attention—shepherd, fire away!
No swain more sad than I in all the run
(I hope you like the settlement)—not one!
Not that I pine for wealth or cities' din,
Or at the distance we've to go for gin:
Peaceful my lot—the frugal damper cakes
That simple-hearted Amaryllis bakes,
Season'd with pickled pork, my wants supply;
And calmly on my cow-skin couch I lie;
But for the thought—shepherd, I'm overcome—
Have you a case about you with some rum?
Shepherd, I drank the last a week ago,
In desperate attempts to drown my woe;
But while I polish off this kangaroo,
Tell me your dismal story—shepherd, do!
In distant London, leagues beyond the sea,
I was policeman Six, division B.
Oh, mighty Jove! I, too, was in the force—
A Twenty-One—you've heard of me, of course?
Familiar to mine ear the number sounds;
In Bedford Square I went my nightly rounds.
For years was Buggins known upon a beat
In the vicinity of Baker Street.
I loved a maid—a housemaid—Mary Ann—
They kept a page, three females, and a man.
I loved a housemaid, too—Matilda Jane—
A noble-hearted girl, though rather plain.
Would that were all my sorrowing heart might tell;
I loved a cook—Jemima Briggs!—as well.
Not you alone such double pangs must brook—
I too have known what 'tis to love a cook.
You know not yet what pangs my bosom tear—
I loved eight nursemaids in the self-same square.
Hearts too for me with mutual throb would beat,
In every other house in Baker Street.
Can Baker Street's cold western claims compare
With the staunch genial worth of Bedford Square?
Could vulgar Bedford venture to compete
With the gentility of Baker Street?
We needn't have a row—it's not worth while;
Let's test the question in the ancient style:
Let each in glowing terms, and decent grammar,
(As far as possible)—the praises clamour
Of the lost Paradise for which he sticks
Up as the champion; and we'll see which licks.
I'll back my Bedford Square at two to one
In bobs against your Baker Street—say done?
Done! But a question the arrangement shakes:
Where can a cove be found to hold the stakes?
Lo, Coorabundy comes! a native nigger—
He shall decide who cuts the ablest figure.
(Coorabundy is installed as umpire.)
Shepherd, begin, and do the best you can.
And don't exasperate the h in Hann.
What heav'n-born rapture, unalloy'd by pain,
Like eating drumsticks grill'd by 'Tilda Jane,
Except the something warm which fate allots,
Mix'd by the practised hand of Sairey Potts.
Prince Albert's cook—not he nor any man's—
Makes scallop'd oysters such as Mary Ann's:
A delicacy which I may say tops
Jemima Briggs's way of doing chops.
Ann Jinks, the very best of all the set,
Would bring me out my supper in the wet;
Many a time I've took it in the airy,
Getting my beer from Number Nine's maid—Mary.
I've had green peas in May from Thompson's Charlotte;
And beans as well, both French and common scarlet.
Rather than me (though Thompson was a snarler),
She'd let them go without things in the parlour.
When "grass" was selling at a pound a bunch,
Susan has cook'd me all there was for lunch:
Risking to say it must have been the cat—
Fancy a girl who'd go as far as that.
Jemima, when we took our walks in town,
Always put on her missis's best gown.
Louisa, knowing how quick linen dirts,
Gave me a dozen of her master's shirts.
Selina's savings kept me for a year,
In skittles, gin-and-water, pipes and beer.
(Rousing himself from a lethargy
into which he has fallen),
You two big fools—you talkee here all night;
Black fellow got de stakes—him hold 'em tight.
(He decamps with the proceeds.)
According to my promise, oh, apple of my eye! I dip my brush in the ink-dish of love, to communicate my adventures in the land of the barbarian. Tee-Tee! think not I have forgotten thee—nor yet that it was those little domestic differences (which I look upon as gnats in the bright sunshine of our wedded happiness) which made me join that tremendous movement—now threatening the Celestial Empire with depopulation—and presenting to the imagination the terrible possibility of the Brother of the Sun and Moon (may his stomach extend!) being compelled to brush out his own pigtail!
Blame me not for leaving thee in the night secretly. I could not have borne a parting. I know thy love for me is such that, hadst thou known my intention, thou wouldst have become frantic—and I should have been quite overcome. My heart failed me as I stole past thy bedchamber door on tiptoe; my shins quivered with emotion when I thought of thy tiny gold-shodden foot; my cheek burned as thy delicate hand seemed to press against it; and when I pictured to myself thy long and graceful nails, I was as a man without eyes!
Enough, oh, Tee-Tee! This comes hoping you are quite well, as it leaves me at present—Fo be praised for the same!
Our labours have not yet been crowned with success. I speak not of the vulgar seeking after gold—to which motives the opponents of progress and light have basely attributed the Great Chinese Emigration Movement which has shaken the barbarian world to its foundation. Thou knowest better. If thou dost not, after all I have told thee, all I can say is that it is just like thee, for a stupid obstinate mule as thou art.
Our mission was to civilize the whiskered and shirt-collared heathen. The light of wisdom had been too long concealed from the outer world by the Great Wall. Thou mayst remark it was odd we never thought of civilizing them till we heard of their finding gold—gold limitless as the glories of the empire! here and in their other settlement of Aus-tra-lee-ah.
Such a remark, oh, Tee-Tee! would be just about as sensible as thy remarks usually are.
It was because the barbarians had found this gold they stood in need of our assistance more than ever. Could such people be expected to know the use of wealth; I ask—could they? And as for once in my life in addressing thee, I can have all the talk to myself—without waiting for thy doubtless illogical reply—I answer, No, they couldn't.
An Exraordinary Movement in China—or an alteration in "The Willow Pattern"—at last!!
It became our duty, at all hazards, to teach them. We resolved, even at the pain of leaving our homes and wives (it's no use thy getting into a passion, oh, Tee-Tee!), to go forth amongst them, and accept the presents of gold and treasures they would doubtless be too glad to lay at our feet, in exchange for that intellectual wealth which we alone are capable of dealing out with a layish hand. At any rate we could prevent their doing much mischief—by taking the treasures from them.
But they are such a set of fools!
Our words of wisdom they receive with mocking laughter, or by calling on their idols to send down curses on our eyes and limbs. So ignorant are they, that they have no fear of the Emperor before their eyes; and tell us, if we want gold we must dig for it.
And this is our reward! Of course digging, for a true-souled Chinaman, is out of the question. In the first place, we should have to cut our nails. In the second place, we should have to exert ourselves. In the third place, one process indispensable to the work of gold-seeking is called washing—a revolting idea!
The result is, that did we not, in our superior wisdom, know the value of rat and puppy (which the barbarians despise), the chop-sticks of your Poo Poo and his companions would be unoccupied.
We are not alone, however, in our misfortunes. There are several men here of a superior tribe—which I think I have heard called Dan-dees—who, like ourselves, have been trained in the ways of wisdom, to despise mere physical labour, and think only of Man's superiority as evidenced in their own persons; who came like ourselves, expecting to be received with rich gifts and open arms by the drudging savages, whose wilderness they had condescended to enlighten by their presence. These men are reviled and neglected because they do not like to soil their hands—and have never learnt to do anything!
My paper is out; and as, I dare say, thou hast already forgotten me, and taken up with that atrocious rascal, Tom Tom—to whom thou wilt probably hand this letter for a pipe-light, without having even looked at it—I need add no more than the signature of the unfortunate
THE CHANGE IN THE WEATHER.
"Well, what do you think of the Weather?"
(Smith, whom we meet frequently.)
The English, climate, so long considered a capital joke, is becoming a very serious matter. They were not Dog-Days last summer; they were HyÆna, Kangaroo, Elephant, Boa-Constrictor days.
If so unnatural a state of things is to be repeated, England will no longer occupy her present position in the world. She will be somewhere else. There will be no place like home. Home itself will not bear the slightest resemblance to it. We shall be all abroad—every British child will be born a foreigner.
Nationality will be at an end. With the loss of our climate, on which the British Constitution so closely depends, it is impossible that we should continue to be the same people.
What will avail the boast that Britons never never shall be slaves, when there is such an immediate likelihood of their becoming niggers?
Our isolated position makes the prospect all the more alarming. The country must be in a continual state of hot water.
The Comic is not, strictly speaking, a Weather Almanack. Still the heat of last summer made us so uncomfortable (we do not mean merely in a physical sense), that we thought it our duty to inquire into the matter. We have, therefore, condescended on this occasion to look into futurity with a weather eye, of which we hasten to present the reader with a few "shoots,"—such, we believe, being the term usually applied to the natural emanations from the eyes of a Murphy.
We regret to say our worst fears have been confirmed. The page in the Book of Destiny that has been opened to our inspection is closely printed, and presents the aspect of a number of the Times, dated August 2nd, 1980. We leave our readers to form their own opinions on the following extracts:—
The Weather and the Crops.—The season continues to be unusually backward. The plantains in the neighbourhood of Wolverhampton have scarcely passed the flower. The cotton fields, however, of the West Riding are in a healthy condition—several trees being already in pod. It is feared that there will be a great loss in consequence of the dearth of labourers. It is true that immigration from Iceland, Nova Zembla, and the manufacturing countries generally, continues to a great extent; but nothing can atone for the impossibility of arousing the native slave population to exertion. The prospects of sugar are far from satisfactory, the siroccos of the last month having completely devastated the plantations—the canes on Clapham Common present a disastrous spectacle! The bread-fruit trees on Blackheath promise an abundant supply of half-quarterns.
"Taking care of Number One"—or—
A Gentleman endeavouring to keep "Number One"—out of "St. Paul's Church Yard"
Frightful Accident.—On Wednesday last, Mr. Edward Jackson, landlord of the "Cocoa-Nut," Tottenham Court Road, having had the imprudence to bathe in the Serpentine, was attacked by a ferocious alligator, who devoured both his legs so as to make amputation, we regret to say, unnecessary.
Enormous Palm Cabbage.—A gigantic specimen of this national plant grown in the open air by a native slave named Higgins, in the little garden attached to his shanty, was exhibited on Tuesday at the meeting of the Agricultural Society. It measured six feet in circumference, and weighed twenty-three pounds four ounces. A medal was awarded to the grower, and was accepted by the Rajah Simpson, his owner, whose family subsequently dined off the cabbage, expressing themselves highly gratified.
Sporting Intelligence.—His Majesty's elephants threw off yesterday from Richmond Park at four o'clock in the morning (the absurd old-world custom of sporting and transacting business in the heat of the day having, we are happy to say, exploded among the intelligent classes); a fine tiger was scented in the jungles of Slave Common, and soon broke cover. The run was a short one. "Puss" was brought to bay among the bamboos of Isleworth swamp, and speared by Coolies Walker and Smithers (eating, by the way, a considerable portion of the latter). His Majesty was in at the death, and returned to tiffin at 8 A.M.
Health of the Metropolis.—The deaths in the metropolis during the last week, as certified by the Registrar-General, are as follows:—
| Yellow Fever | 1640 |
| Black do | 870 |
| Green do | 651 |
| Ague | 923 |
| Coup de Soleil | 130 |
| Eaten by personal acquaintances (cannibalism being, we regret to say, rather on the increase among the benighted lower orders) | 24 |
| Eaten by savage animals, stung by reptiles (including a family of six in Judd Street, devoured by the house tiger, who had broken his chain, and was unfortunately not muzzled), &c. | 18 |
| Influenza (old English complaint) almost obsolete | 1 |
| ———— |
| Total | 4257 |
| ———— |
Altogether a most satisfactory return, showing a marked improvement since last week.
THE MONSTER SWEEP.
We beg to propound the following question for the consideration of the members of the Peace Society. Is the Cannon who has lately created such a sensation in London, one they would like to see let off?
ELECTION INTELLIGENCE,
WITH THE RIGHTS OF WOMEN RECOGNISED.
(For which the Ladies are referred to Mr. Cruikshank's charming
picture of the Future.)
Sir Charles Darling (the Ladies' Candidate), presented himself on the hustings amidst a general waving of handkerchiefs, and spoke as follows:—
Ladies and—(with a smile)—need I say gentlemen? (Titters and "Droll creature!") I think not. Gallantry forbids my recognising their existence—in any light other than as the devoted slaves of that divine sex, of whom I am proud to esteem myself the humblest. (Cries of "How nice!")
Ladies, then, angels, goddesses ("Oh!" from an elderly bachelor, who was removed by the police), for the thrilling position in which I am placed, how can I be sufficiently grateful to that glorious reform in our electoral system, which has partially recognised the true position of lovely woman? ("Partially!" in a tone of sarcasm, from a member of Mr. Screwdriver's committee). My honourable and gallant friend objects to the adverb. I say partially, for by admitting the ladies to the Franchise with the gentlemen, they are but recognised as equals, instead of superiors. (Great sensation.) Yes, ladies, and it shall be my earnest endeavours as your representative ("Yah!" and "Not yet!" from Mr. Screwdriver). My honourable and gallant friend observes "Not yet." It is true I have a formidable rival to contend with. The charms of his person, (screams, and "the Old Fright!") his known politeness, above all his taste in dress (here the laughter and clapping of kid gloves rendered the speaker inaudible for some moments)—compared with such claims, mine are worthless ("Do listen!" and "The Duck!"), extending no farther than a willingness, I may say a downright anxiety, to die in the cause of the fair creatures, who, I believe I may say, have done me the honour to elect me as their champion ("Yes! Yes!") With the ladies' voices in my favour, I believe I need not fear those of the gentlemen being exerted against me. (Cries of "We should like to see them," "Speak up, Alfred, do," "I'm ashamed of you," &c.) I thank you, gentlemen—or rather I do not thank you; I honour you for your—may I say obedience? ("Oh yes!" in a rapturous tone, from the engaged gentlemen), though, after all, I don't see how you were to help yourselves. (Great applause, and numerous bouquets thrown.)
The Honourable Mrs. Poser stepped forward, and begged to be allowed to address a few questions to the candidate.
Mrs. Poser. What are Sir Charles's views with regard to the existing Excise regulations?
Sir Charles. My first measure will be to bring in a bill legalizing the smuggling of laces and French ribbons. (Rapturous cheering.)
A Voice. About the Sanitary Movement?
Sir Charles thought every family should leave town at the end of the season. It was his opinion, that all husbands paying the income tax should be compelled to take their wives and children to the seaside for the autumn months. It should have his earliest attention. In answer to another speaker, he considered that Assembly-rooms should be maintained in every town by the public purse.
Mrs. Poser. What Foreign Policy will you advocate?
Sir Charles would advocate peace with France at all hazards, that nothing might endanger the immediate importation of Parisian fashions. (Cheers and bouquets.)
A Young Lady. About the Army?
Sir Charles. I am for keeping up a standing army, to consist entirely of regiments of horse-guards, composed exclusively of officers. (Immense sensation.)
Mrs. Poser. I should like to hear your intentions as to the tobacco duties.
Sir Charles. To prohibit the importation and cultivation of that objectionable plant altogether, so that there may be no more smoking.
A show of parasols was demanded, and Sir Charles Darling was declared duly elected.
SCRAP FROM A NEW "SEASONS."
By Thompson, of the London Daily Press Generally.[11]
* * * * *
And now September comes, and Parliament
Hears, and obeys, for once, the nation's cry,
By "shutting up" at last. Forth to the moors
Hies the tir'd senator: his high-born dame,
Seeking her rustic bower, entertains
A most select and fashionable circle.
Now stares the peasant at the season's strange
Ethereal mildness! Not a hundred miles
From the secluded village where we write
(Small worth its humble name), the troubled sky
Pours down in wrath a mystic show'r of frogs!
Bewilder'd fly the scared inhabitants,
Of whom the Oldest fails to recollect
A like phenomenon! Now erst are seen
Enormous gooseberries——
* * * * *
FULL DRESS.
"There was a sound of revelry by night,"
(In fact the neighbours couldn't sleep a wink)
Mingled with that of double knocks, and slight
Remarks from coachmen, overcome with drink,
Not indispensable to our narration,
And totally unfit for publication.
There came a knock—a double-treble rap,
That startled all the square from its propriety,
Made Fanny Thompson scream and cling,
To Captain Smith (the artful thing!)
As in a deux temps round they flew,
(The Prima Donna, best of the variety);
Shook the gold oats in Lady Boozle's cap;
Sent Charley Finch in Lucy Lightfoot's lap,
(The rogue had stayed there, but he knew
The folks would talk—quite proper too);
Checked Jeames in an upstair-ward rush,
And with a tray of lemonade,
Fantastic maps of England made
Upon his whilom spotless plush.
(He was discharged next day for insobriety)—
Made Croop revoke;
Brown's only joke,
Arrested ere 'twas said;
His only chance that ev'ning dish'd,
Oh! how he wish'd
To punch that brazen-knocker's lion head.
The circling throng,
Stooping to catch Miss Jenny Linnet's song—
The feeble quavers heard no more.
The knock had quite upset them all,
Sing, Jenny, more than ever small!
In vain thy chirping notes outpour;
Gone is thy light of other days,
One chorus now all voices raise
Of "Who dat knocking at de door?"
"Who can it be?
It must be somebody of some pretension:"
All flock to see
The Great Announced, or hear the footman mention
The name of one, whose birth or prosp'rous dealings
Have given him the true patrician right
Of disregarding other people's feelings.
"A city knight?
Will you be—our Vis À Vis?——
A peer—a minister—a pure Caucasian,
Who has contrived to solve the myst'ry Asian,
Of gaining millions to downright satiety?
The Smythsons see extremely good society!"
The fever waxes hotter,
When enter James,
Who coldly names—
"Mr. and Mrs. Trotter."
Each grey-beard thinks himself a boy again,
And feels inclined to bellow, "Ah-bal-loon!"
Two strange round figures up the staircase strain,
Each like a Lord-Rosse telescopic moon;
With difficulty is the doorway pass'd.
Come! Mrs. Smythson's rooms are full at last.
Full! there's no moving—Mrs. Trotter's skirt
Covers the whole saloon, and Trotter's tie,
(Which Jones—that very oddest fish—
Says is a tie that he could wish
Had bound the Trotter to his home)
In rigid folds on either side
A yard away, and quite as wide,
In search of mischief seems to roam—
With menaced hurt,
Mutely advising each to mind his eye.
And Trotter's sleeve!
Each sleeve would hold two Trotters and a half in it:
One might believe
He'd had it made to hide himself and laugh in it;
And of his pantaloons, the spacious work
Would stamp him as the extra great Grand Turk,
But (what might cause that theory to totter)
No harem of the grandest kind
Could be constructed room to find
For two sultanas such as Mrs. Trotter.
On! sweeping all
Before them like the hay in time of mowing,
Upsetting chairs and tables in the way;
The ornaments, by Mrs. T.'s bouquet
(Of peonies and dahlias all a-blowing)
Brush'd from the mantelpieces, fall;
The fiddlers into corners crouch;
The guests away in dudgeon slouch,
As from the hunter's spear shrink otters,
Impalement on the tie of Trotter fearing—
Into back rooms and closets disappearing.
The halls are empty, Empty—pshaw!
Fill'd—as a new-dined turkey's craw,
By the triumphant and expansive Trotters.
"Now really, Trotter" (Smythson from the door—
He couldn't enter), "tell me what this means.
I'm glad to see you—no one could be more;
But still in good society—these scenes—
You're a good fellow—no one could be better—
I know how very deeply I'm your debtor;
Still, you ought not—
You know that I invited you (I told you)
Purely from the esteem in which I hold you;
And as a wish to come your wife express'd,
I couldn't well refuse; but still, this jest—"
Says Trotter, "What?"
"What? why, my guests are going, every one."
"My eyes," says Trotter, "is the game all finished?
Well, blow me! there's been precious little fun—"
"It isn't that—'tis you who have diminished
The evening's pleasure." "We! well, that's a droll 'un;
We as come here resolved to go the whole 'un—"
"But think—so strangely dress'd!
Yourself a full-sail'd ship—your wife St. Paul's,—
A little outrÉ, it must be confess'd—"
"Well, I'll be blest!"
Exclaim'd the wondering Trotter, "but I calls
That out-and-out. D'ye mean to say that this is
Wot ain't the reg'lar thing? Just hear him, missis!
After the many hog, bull, bob, and tanner
We've spent to get puffed out in this here manner!
It's his own words—I'll keep him to it!
Didn't you say we couldn't come unless
We came togg'd out in regular FULL dress?
What—yes?
Well, then, we thought we'd do it."
A GREAT MISTAKE.
To suppose that the American heroes, planning the Lone Star expedition against Cuba, have any deeply-rooted antipathy to Spanish.
A Pack of Knaves, or A "Packed" meeting of the "Knowing Cards" of the Betting-Shop interest to consider & adopt the best Shuffling Tricks to carry on their Game! A humble attempt in the "Pre Raphael" Style by George Cruikshank.
MYSTERIES OF PARIS,
Totally Unexplained, by a Regular Briton.
In the first place, I should like to know what they mean by wearing those enormous fur hats? They may be an intelligent people. All I know is—I never saw such a set of muffs as they look in all my life. And such tight trousers! reducing the legs of Young France to next to nothing, and presenting an appearance of top-heaviness that is absolutely uncomfortable to contemplate. They talk of their stable government! The heads of the nation could never have been in a more tottering condition than they seem now—and I don't see how things can possibly go on long on such a slender footing.
Why should such a difference exist between the civil and military states? I have heard a great deal of the admirable discipline of the French army; but in a great many regiments there appears to be no recognisable head worth speaking of. Quite the contrary. Are we indeed to believe the scandal that all the boasted cares and energies of the saviours of France have only been directed to the basest ends?
This is the baker! The circular article he holds in his right hand is a loaf! So is the longitudinal ditto in his left! I am at a loss to account for the singular expedients resorted to by the French for making their bread. It is true that one species possesses the great recommendation, to the heads of families, of going a very long way. But, on the contrary, the other is a description of food which the smallest child could get through in no time.
This gentleman is supposed to be conducting himself in this remarkable manner from an excess of enjoyment and high spirits; the French, generally, being supposed to be a gay and light-hearted people. Does a close inspection of the expression of the gentleman's countenance, in the height of his hilarity, warrant either supposition? Would it not rather be thought that he is performing a terrible act of penance for some sin that can never be wholly expiated?
They have policemen in Paris, I suppose. Indeed I know they have. Why, then, is so strong a detachment of the military necessary to conduct that little boy to prison? Is it that the civil officers are less to be trusted with a service of danger than our own gallant Blues, or that juvenile delinquency exists in France to an extent unknown in our favoured clime?
I should like to know why the French can't allow their trees to grow as they like, instead of cropping and clipping them, like so many whiskers on the face of Nature. These singular-looking ter-restrial spheres, planted in square tubs, in the Luxembourg Gardens, I am told are orange-trees. Very good. Their resemblance to oranges is certainly striking. I should be happy to accept their appropriate rotundity as a precedent for the invariable rule (as having an instructive tendency), but that, on inspection, I do not find the neighbouring groves to consist of pear-trees as, judging from appearances, I was induced to imagine.
The French, I am told, down to the lowest grades of society, are proverbial for their gallantry and consideration for the fair sex. Appearances are certainly deceptive; but there is no trusting to them in Paris. For instance, these individuals, I have ascertained, belong to the class ouvrier:—
To avoid the slightest mistake, I have hunted up the dictionary meaning of that word. I find it to be homme qui travaille—industriel.
They are certainly a strange race. How anybody can sleep, with gentlemen parading the streets about a hundred at a time, before daybreak, and continuing their what's-his-name's tattoo every ten minutes, is a puzzler.
How anybody can sleep with these gentlemen—is another question!
HARMLESS ACCOMPANIMENT TO MR. CRUIKSHANK'S
PLATE ON THE OPPOSITE PAGE.
A friend of ours (had we been writing in the last century, we should have said a wag), was expressing himself in terms of the highest indignation with, or rather without, respect to his shoe-maker for presuming to emigrate to Australia, on the pitiful plea that he (our friend) was the only customer he had left. We remarked that we could see nothing reprehensible in his conduct—especially as all his former patrons had deserted him. "What are his former patrons to me?" exclaimed our friend; "I am the only one remaining to him—and a cobbler ought to stick to his last."
We laughed. Gentle reader, drop a smile if you can possibly manage it.
"There's Nothing like Leather"—
WANTED, A DIBDIN.
Apply to the First Lord of the Admiralty.
We hear a great deal of the prevalence of discontent in the navy. It is said that the sailors are constantly grumbling at the way they are treated, in the matter of unwholesome food and unsafe ships.
A great many suggestions have been offered as to the best remedy for this evil. Some weak-minded practical persons have proposed fresh provisions and new ships.
We propose a Dibdin!
It is a notorious fact, that the late Charles Dibdin, during the war, did the State great service by his sea songs, which had the effect of persuading the British sailor that fighting was a very jolly thing; that Frenchmen ought to (and might easily) be exterminated; and that all the unpleasantness of a tempest might be satisfactorily overcome by climbing up into the rigging and thinking of an absent Sue or Polly.
Why not employ a competent person to do something of the same kind in the present day? It would be much better to reconcile the British seaman to existing hardship, than to encourage a mutinous and dissatisfied spirit. Of course, we put removing the difficulty out of the question, as totally opposed to all precedent.
We annex a specimen or two of the sort of thing on which the proposed salt-water laureate might be advantageously employed.
Go, patter to lubbers and swabs, do you see,
About dainties, and stews, and the like—
A chunk of salt horse and some biscuit give me,
And it isn't at maggots I'll strike.
Avast! and don't think me a milksop so soft,
To be taken by trifles aback,
What would turn a fine gentleman's nose up aloft
Will be quite good enough for poor Jack.
Or in this style:—
Come all ye jolly sailors bold,
Who life as next to nothing hold,
While English glory I unfold,
Huzza for the Arethusa!
She is a frigate quite used up,
Leaky and cracked as an old tea-cup
Her sides are thin,
And the rot's got in;
So if your dauntless pluck you'd show
Now is your time a cruise to go
On board of the Arethusa
THE VULTURE:
AN ORNITHOLOGICAL STUDY.
AFTER THE LATE EDGAR A. POE.
The Vulture is the most cruel, deadly, and voracious of birds of prey. He is remarkable for his keen scent, and for the tenacity with which he invariably clings to the victim on whom he has fixed his gripe. He is not to be shaken off whilst the humblest pickings remain. He is usually to be found in an indifferent state of feather.—New Translation of Cuvier.
Once upon a midnight chilling, as I held my feet unwilling
O'er a tub of scalding water, at a heat of ninety-four;
Nervously a toe in dipping, dripping, slipping, then outskipping,
Suddenly there came a ripping, whipping, at my chambers door.
"'Tis the second floor," I mutter'd, "flipping at my chambers door—
Wants a light—and nothing more!"
Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the chill November,
And each cuticle and member was with influenza sore;
Falt'ringly I stirr'd the gruel, steaming, creaming o'er the fuel,
And anon removed the jewel that each frosted nostril bore,
Wiped away the trembling jewel that each redden'd nostril bore—
Nameless here for evermore!
And I recollect a certain draught that fann'd the window curtain
Chill'd me, fill'd me with the horror of two steps across the floor,
And, besides, I'd got my feet in, and a most refreshing heat in,
To myself I sat repeating—"If I answer to the door—
Rise to let the ruffian in who seems to want to burst the door,
I'll be ——" that and something more.
Presently the row grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Really, Mister Johnson, blow it!—your forgiveness I implore,
Such an observation letting slip, but when a man's just getting
Into bed, you come upsetting nerves and posts of chambers door,
Making such a row, forgetting"—Spoke a voice beyond the door:
"'Tisn't Johnson"—nothing more.
Quick a perspiration clammy bathed me, and I uttered "Dammy!"
(Observation wrested from me, like the one I made before)
Back upon the cushions sinking, hopelessly my eyes, like winking,
On some stout for private drinking, ranged in rows upon the floor,
Fix'd—and on an oyster barrel (full) beside them on the floor,
Look'd and groan'd, and nothing more.
Open then was flung the portal, and in stepp'd a hated mortal,
By the moderns call'd a Vulture (known as Sponge in days of yore),
Well I knew his reputation! cause of all my agitation—
Scarce a nod or salutation changed, he pounced upon the floor;
Coolly lifted up the oysters and some stout from off the floor,
Help'd himself, and took some more.'
Then this hungry beast untiring fix'd his gaze with fond admiring
On a piece of cold boil'd beef I meant to last a week or more,
Quick he set to work devouring—plates, in quick succession, scouring—
Stout with every mouthful show'ring—made me ask, to see it pour,
If he quite enjoy'd his supper, as I watch'd the liquid pour;
Said the Vulture, "Never more."
Much disgusted at the spacious vacuum by this brute voracious
Excavated in the beef—(he'd eaten quite enough for four)—
Still, I felt relief surprising when at length I saw him rising,
That he meant to go surmising, said I, glancing at the door—
"Going? well, I wont detain you—mind the stairs and shut the door——"
"Leave you, Tomkins!—never more."
Startled by an answer dropping hints that he intended stopping
All his life—I knew him equal to it if he liked, or more—
Half in dismal earnest, half in joke, with an attempt at laughing,
I remarked that he was chaffing, and demanded of the bore,
Ask'd what this disgusting, nasty, greedy, vile, intrusive bore
Meant in croaking "Never more?"
But the Vulture not replying, took my bunch of keys, and trying
Sev'ral, found at length the one to fit my private cupboard door;
Took the gin out, fill'd the kettle; and, with a sang froid to nettle
Any saint, began to settle calmly down the grate before,
Really as he meant departing at the date I named before,
Of never, never more!
Then I sat engaged in guessing what this circumstance distressing
Would be likely to result in, for I knew that long before
Once (it served me right for drinking) I had told him that if sinking
In the world, my fortunes linking to his own, he'd find my door
Always open to receive him and it struck me now that door
He would pass p'raps never more!
Suddenly the air was clouded, all the furniture enshrouded
With the smoke of vile tobacco—this was worse than all before;
"Smith!" I cried (in not offensive tones, it might have been expensive,
For he knew the art defensive, and could costermongers floor);
"Recollect it's after midnight, are you going?—mind the floor."
Quoth the Vulture, "Never more!"
"Smith!" I cried (the gin was going, down his throat in rivers flowing),
"If you want a bed, you know there's quite a nice hotel next door,
Very cheap. I'm ill—and, joking set apart, your horrid smoking
Irritates my cough to choking. Having mentioned it before,
Really, you should not compel one—Will you mizzle—as before?"
Quoth the Vulture, "Never more!"
"Smith!" I cried, "that joke repeating merits little better treating
For you than a condemnation as a nuisance and a bore.
Drop it, pray, it isn't funny; I've to mix some rum and honey—
If you want a little money, take some and be off next door;
Run a bill up for me if you like, but do be off next door."
Quoth the Vulture, "Never more!"
"Smith!" I shriek'd—the accent humbler dropping, as another tumbler
I beheld him mix, "be off! you drive me mad—it's striking four.
Leave the house and something in it; if you go on at the gin, it
Wont hold out another minute. Leave the house and shut the door—
Take your beak from out my gin, and take your body through the door!"
Quoth the Vulture, "Never more!"
Mrs. Piper (superintending the chops and neglecting her punctuation)—"Oh dear, dear, dear! it's enough to drive anybody crazy with all the trouble I've had with the huzzies the nasty good-for-nothing, idle, lazy—the wicked presumptuous bad creatures, to think of their taking such a start. Don't talk to me, Piper; it's the fault of you men for taking their part. Can't blame them indeed for wanting to better their situations!—of course my servants were very ill used I understand your insinuations. No doubt it's a treat to you to see your poor wife made into a slave—not that there's any novelty in that I wish I was in my grave!—melted to death and getting into such a mess with the chances I have of even getting a new dress—at those dratted chops for you to guzzle. If you had the feelings of a man, you'd do something to help me. Oh! I daresay you're doing all you can—a pretty kettle of fish you're making of the Irish stew. Ah! there goes the poker on to the plates—don't tell me—you do it on purpose—you do. I didn't say you touched the poker but you do all you can to flurry me in one way or other—Tom, you naughty, unfeeling boy, how dare you join in the conspiracy against your poor mother? If your father's burnt you, it's just like him go and rub your hand with soap—though you'll be clever to find it—Yes—Mr. Piper, you're satisfied now, I hope—with your institutions and lectures and South Australia panoramas I wish Mr. Prout and all the rest of the wretches at the Polytechnic were pounded to death with sledge-hammers—putting notions of emigration into the heads of a set of brazen faces—but they've been a great deal too well treated, or they would not have had time to go to such places; and those newspapers talking about their rights and freedom if they'd minded their work they wouldn't have had time to read 'em. In my poor dear mother's time, no servant could get a place who knew how to read. Ought to be treated like human beings? a pretty story, indeed! I know what you mean Piper you needn't try to keep your gravity—but they were always thinking of husbands and settling in life or some such depravity.
Scarcity of Domestic Servants—or Every Family their own Cooks!!!——
Being Verifications of our Prognostications in 1851—upon the subject of Over Female Emigration!
"Arabella and Jane you idle things don't stand staring there, but go and lay the cloth before your father begins to swear. All the tumblers are broken? Well, to be sure, I might have expected that but I'm astonished at you Arabella for daring to tell me it was the cat. If it was that minx, Jemima—yes, I see very well, Mr. Piper that we don't get on as well without her as if I wanted her to go, the viper! when she knew the whole comfort of the family depended on her staying to be off to Australia the ungrateful thing she deserves flaying. With the beautiful kitchen she had only she never took a pride in it let alone seven pounds a year and her tea found with sugar beside in it. But of course madam must have a farm and want to be some scamp's wife—never thinking what I've to get through with my two poor girls to settle in life. Jane bring a dish this minute do. What! do you mean to say there's only one and that's cracked, on the shelf? Well, I've done all human nature can do, Mr. Piper you may get your dinner yourself. If the chops are black I can't help it well you needn't mention it—I see—if there's one on the floor you may pick it up. Ah! I knew how it would be. The gridiron's tumbled over with what I've to go through, how can you expect me to attend to it? I've not been used to this sort of thing the chimney's on fire and there's an end to it. The house must be burnt down. Oh yes! call the police, but you may call for ever if you find a policeman now all the servants have gone to Australia, all I say is you'll be clever."
ANSWER TO CORRESPONDENTS.
Snikmit.—Your conundrum was received in 1846, and has been in type ever since. We shall probably be able to find room for it in the course of a few years. Do not be impatient. We have all had our beginnings.
Walter the Doubter.—The circulation of the Comic Almanack is eight millions. The editor's salary is ten thousand a year. But these things are not done for money.
J.—Your offer has had our most careful consideration. We fear that a novel in ten books, each containing eighty chapters, to be published at the rate of a chapter per year, will scarcely suit our publication. It would be difficult to sustain the interest for so long a period and at such considerable intervals.
Worrit.—There are three thousand and ninety-five editions of Uncle Tom's Cabin published. It is estimated that every adult Briton has purchased nine copies of that remarkable work and read them all.
Julianetta says she could love us madly if she could make up her mind to believe that we don't dye our whiskers. We do.
Rum Dickey assures us he is just the fellow for our money. He is very clever at finding out conundrums; knows three comic songs; and has a friend who is intimate with an Ethiopian serenader. We will think of it.
Walkinshaw.—Our pay is nineteen and sixpence per line for prose—two guineas for verse; only we don't accept contributions.
Wapshot informs us that he has occupied all his leisure hours for the last twelve months in trying to find out the rebus, signed "Lilly," in last year's Comic Almanack. He hopes, after all the trouble he has taken, we will not publish any other answer to it till his arrives. We pledge him our honour.
Enquiros wishes us to inform him the day of the month, and in what year, Julius CÆsar landed in Britain; the number of lines in the Iliad; what we consider the best receipt for tartar in the teeth; whether Mrs. Glover ever played Ophelia or not in early life—and if she did, at what theatre, and to whose Rosencrantz; how he had better set to work to obtain a commission in the army without interest; if A pegs one too many by accident, has B a right to score four; which year's volume of the Little Warbler we would recommend for general purposes, in preference to the others; and if we know of a good shop for elastic trousers. Perhaps some of our readers will oblige him with an answer.
ADVERTISEMENTS.
NO MORE MOSQUITOES! CATCH 'EM ALIVE!—To destroy these noxious insects, the scourge of an English summer, use Wilkinson's Extract of Upas, prepared only by him at his plantations, Hampstead Heath, and sold (with directions) by all respectable chemists, in bottles, at 1s. 1½d., 2s. 9d., and 4s.
THE PALMS, PECKHAM.—Delightful Family Residence to BE LET, immediately; consisting of six rooms (all snake-proof), flat roof, with verandah; capable of making up five beds, stable for two camels, hippopotamus sty, ostrichry, slave shed, and the usual offices. Apply personally to Mr. Jukes, 14, Chancery Lane, any morning before sunrise.
AN ENGLISH SUN AND AN ENGLISH SKY.
An English sun and an English sky,
Tally hi ho! hi ho, boys!
About this time, in the hot July,
Themselves begin to show, boys.
The former fierce, and the latter hot,
As Coleridge says, like copper;
But a different state of affairs would not
Be seasonable or proper!
What should we do when the sun and sky.
Tally hi ho! hi ho, boys!
Bake us to death, should we yet say die?
Certainly not, we know, boys!
Let us be brave, and the heat to face,
Be off, despondency loathing,
To Moses and Sons' and our forms encase
In appropriate summer clothing.
THE ORIGINAL MONSTER MARTS of E. MOSES & SONS, established upwards of 150 years, supply the public with the following articles of national and seasonable attire, at the lowest possible prices:—
| Complete Nankeen Suit | £1 | 5 | 0 |
| Plantain Hat | 0 | 4 | 9 |
| Barege Shirts, per dozen | 1 | 3 | 0 |
A small quantity of book-muslin great-coats, remaining on hand since the last severe winter, are being disposed of at an alarming sacrifice.
WANT PLACES.
ALL COMMUNICATIONS TO BE POST PAID.
AS SNAKE-CHARMER IN A SERIOUS FAMILY.—A native, recently converted by the missionaries, from Timbuctoo. No objection to look after a camel, and make himself generally useful. Apply to J—n Sm—th, 6, Jaguar Place, Broad Street.
A STOUT, ACTIVE MAN, an experienced driver—to look after a Nigger. Address P. Q., Elephant and Castle.
