Chapter I: Part 1

GALLERY

OF

COMICALITIES;

EMBRACING HUMOROUS

SKETCHES

BY

THE BROTHERS

_ROBERT and GEORGE CRUIKSHANK_,

_ROBERT SEYMOUR_,

AND OTHERS.

=London:=
Charles Hindley,
41, BOOKSELLERS' ROW, ST. CLEMENT DANES, STRAND, W.C.

THE

GALLERY OF COMICALITIES.

Most of the "COMICALITIES" here re-produced in _fac simile_ first appeared in the columns of BELL'S LIFE IN LONDON AND SPORTING CHRONICLE during the years 1827-8 and 9, and caused an unprecedented increase in the weekly sale of that journal.

As a painter of LIFE and NATURE, in all their truth and eccentricity, GEORGE CRUIKSHANK may be truly said to stand unrivalled, and to be only equalled, even in former times by the inimitable HOGARTH. The present Series has been principally selected from "CRUIKSHANK'S _Illustrations of_ TIME and PHRENOLOGY," and his _Illustrations_ to Mr. Wright's "MORNINGS AT BOW STREET" and the sequel entitled "MORE MORNINGS AT BOW STREET"--works which are replete with wit and humour.

ROBERT CRUIKSHANK, the elder brother of George Cruikshank, Illustrated many books, &c., including Pierce Egan's, "THE FINISH to the Adventures of TOM, JERRY, and LOGIC, in their pursuits through LIFE in and out of London," 1827. Died March 13, 1856. Aged 65 years.

ROBERT SEYMOUR, a graphic humourist was born in London, about the year 1800. He was apprenticed to Mr. Thomas Vaughan, a pattern-drawer in Spitalfields, and his practice in that department of art appears to have given him the facility and accuracy of pencil for which he was afterwards so distinguished. Within a very short period of fulfilling his term of apprenticeship, he commenced, on his own account, as a painter in oils, and must have been tolerably expert at that early age, as already in the spring of 1822, we find him exhibiting a picture of some pretensions at the Royal Academy.

He executed various other oil paintings about this period, but the more pressing demand on his talents was for drawings on wood, a mode of book illustration then in great vogue. The various illustrated books and periodicals published for the next ten or twelve years bespeak his popularity and industry in that department.

Although Seymour's hands were full of commissions for drawing on wood, he was always desirous of practice in a more independent department of art, feeling that the engraver, however competent, frequently failed to communicate the full force of his drawing. He, therefore, determined--where possible, on etching or engraving his own designs on copper or steel. He was very successful in full length sketches of public characters, and has left us many life-like portraits of members of the Turf and Drama between 1830 and 1836.

But of all Seymour's various works his "Humorous Sketches" were his prime favourites, and will best perpetuate his name. They were first published between the years 1834 and 1836, in detached prints at 3d. each, by Mr. Richard Carlisle, of Fleet Street. The entire collection was subsequently engraved on steel, and published in 1838, with letterpress description by Crowquill (Alfred Henry Forrester), the popular humourist of the day.

Figaro in London--the popular predecessor of Punch, edited and published by Gilbert A'Beckett from December 1831 to 1836--contains nearly 300 woodcuts after Seymour. They were also published separately as "Seymour's Caricature Gallery," and after his death were all re-published on six large sheets, each containing 20 subjects, as "Seymour's Comic Scrap Sheets."

Seymour's connection with the publication and illustration of the now famous Pickwick Papers is well known to the reading world by the printed statement of Mrs. Seymour, and Charles Dickens' own account of the origin of the Pickwick Papers, to need repetition.

ILLUSTRATIONS

of the

DRAMA

by

_Robert Cruikshank_.]

Will you walk into my parlour? said the Spider to the Fly,
'Tis the prettiest little parlour that ever you did see;
You've only got to pop your head within inside of the door,
You'll see so many curious things you never saw before!
Will you, will you, will you, will you,
Walk in pretty Fly, &c.

ILLUSTRATIONS OF THE DRAMA

"WHERE SHALL I DINE."

Where shall I dine? Would I could tell,
For, hungry, faint, and weary,
It is to me, I know full well,
An all-important query.

Thou Man of Flank! a CUT of thine
Would silence hunger's call;
But a Friend's, CUT alas! is mine,
"The unkindest cut of all."

O for a herring, dainty fish!
Or tender lambkin's fry;
But as in vain for MEAT I wish,
'Tis MEET that I should sigh.

Ere by the freaks of Fortune floor'd,
Such was my former luck,
That under many a friendly board
My trotters I could tuck.

Now, though at dining hour I go,
From house to house I roam,
My rap too well the servants know,
And "Master's not at home."

'Tis getting cold, and wet, and dark,
To fate I must resign;
Duke Humphrey calls me to the Park,
And with his Grace I'll dine.

"THE PILOT."

Thou, guardian Pilot of the night,
One favour we would ax--
Tell us, old Cock, and tell us right,
Where we can get some Max?

We need the skilful pilot's aid
Amid the billows' roar,
And pilots still I find, old Blade,
Are handy lads ashore.

Then steer us for a friendly port
And keep the wessel steady,
And you shall have a dram of short--
In brandy, rum, or Deady.

With bread and cheese I'll stow your hold;
I likes a hearty grubber;
But, shiver me, it's getting cold,
So take the helm, you lubber.

Come, Poll, my buxom wench make sail,
I'm one as never fears man,
To reach our port we cannot fail
With such an able steersman.

Then come, old Boy, there's nought to pay,
For I will be your banker;
Nor do I care how long you stay
Wherever we cast anchor.

"IS HE JEALOUS?"

"O fly with me, my lady fair--
I love and I adore you;
Henceforth the heart and fortune share
Of him who kneels before you.

"Then listen to thy lover's vows,
Nor of vain scruples tell us;
Why care a pin about your spouse--
Confound him!--is he jealous?"

"Go, get you gone, you naughty man,
Nor dare attempt my virtue;
I hide my blushes with my fan,
Yet I've no wish to hurt you."

Then, gay Lothario! persevere--
Still urge thy passion brisker;
Nor dread an interloper here,
Thou man of bushy whisker!

If, armed with poker and with pop,
Poor Spouse should be so rude now
As at this moment in to drop,
Faith! wouldn't he intrude now?

O, married dames! when lovers' sighs
Steal softly on your ear,
Shun the temptation, if you're wise--
The Devil's always near.

"MACBETH."

"What fearful vision strikes thy sight,
What phantom haunts thy brain,
That thus thou startest with affright,
Thou sooty-visaged Thane?"

"No dagger stained with blood I view,
To fill my soul with dread;
But SPIRITS pale of RUIN BLUE
Of DEADY--not the DEAD--

"To clutch thee how this breast doth throb,
Thou source of purest pleasure,
Fain would I wash my sooty gob
From yon Imperial measure!

"Soon may the cordial MAX be mine,
My sinking heart to cheer;
So my grim soul no more shall pine
On INTERMEDIATE Beer.

"And when the FLUID warms my FLUE,
Rous'd by the generous stuff,
I'm ---- if I'm the Faker who
Shall first cry, 'Hold--enough!'"

"THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL."

What relish to the tea you sip,
How smoothly it goes down,
If a poor friend has made a slip,
Or suffer'd Fortune's frown.

"Well! these are shocking things I hear,
To doubt I much incline;
At any rate, you know, my dear,
It's no concern of mine.

"But if such courses folks will chose,
And many do not doubt it,
For us, you know, there's some excuse,
If we should talk about it.

"There's something more, I plainly see
Which you don't chose to utter;
Do make a confidant of me--
Do take some bread and butter."

Scandal's a most delightful theme--
A spring that ne'er will fail;
But, Tabitha, you little dream,
You're scalding Pussy's tail!

Like the wild maniac is your breath--
Of all mankind the pest--
Who scatters poison, ruin, death,
Then cries, "'Twas but in jest!"

"EVERY MAN HAS HIS FAULT."

Doctor, thy accents, soft and bland,
Are ever sure to please;
What female bosom can withstand
A Parson on his knees?

"No more will I, with drunken sot,
Carry connubial farce on;
If thou, fond man will share my lot,
And prove an upright Parson.

"With stagg'ring spouse no longer vex'd,
Free from a useless charge,
Henceforward love shall be the text
On which we'll both enlarge."

A parson, naughty people say,
Is but a sinful elf--
Like road-post, pointing out the way
He never takes himself.

"O, come and bless these Reverend arms,
Nor scorn my holy vows;
Why did hard Fate bestow such charms
Upon a drunken spouse.

"O, can it be a fault to love
A lady so divine?
Then, by the powers that reign above,
I own that fault is mine."

"LOVE, LAW, AND PHYSIC."

"Lady, the Patient's very ill,
"The pulse is sinking fast,
"'Tis really time to make his will,
"I'm sure he cannot last.

"Though, as we bear him to his grave,
"Your grief you cannot smother,
"As one man's life I cannot save,
"I'll soon provide another."

This language we might well suppose,
Would at such time have shock'd her;
But the poor Lady's looks disclose
No wrath towards the Doctor.

Then, Lawyer, all in vain you sue,
For Physic must succeed,
And what, alas! remains for you?
The WILL--without the DEED.

"RAISING THE WIND."

A long farewell my breeks of shag;
It grieves me to the heart,
To doom thee to a Hebrew's bag--
But you and I must part.

No more thy substance, smooth and warm,
Shall shield me from the weather;
And I must bear the pelting storm,
With bare and breekless nether.

The loss 'tis needless to deplore,
To my hard fate I bow,
I was an Irishman before,
I am a Scotsman now.

Poverty in this vale of woe
Some strange acquaintance brings;
And Poverty full well I know
Makes people do strange things.

Why doth yon Nymph with warming pan
Parade the streets about?
To raise the needful as she can--
To put it up the spout!

How many noble, good, and wise,
Are turn'd in life adrift--
Forced their last SHIRT to sacrifice,
To make another SHIFT.

"MEASURE FOR MEASURE."

"Die! dastard Snip--that mortal thrust
Shall perforate thy lungs,
And lay thee prostrate in the dust,
Thou proudest of the Dungs!

"No more, among my cross-legg'd band,
Thy schemes shall gender strife;
And ne'er again thy rebel hand
Attempt thy master's life!

"Where, now, are all thy idle boasts?
This blow shall introduce
Thy Spirit where the Tailor ghosts
Eat visionary goose!

"Down, Traitor! to thy native Hell!
Fresh treasons there to plan--
With recreant spectre Snips to dwell--
Thou fraction of a man!

"Ye restless Dungs of spirit rough,
From this example know--
ONE ACTIVE MEASURE is enough
To lay a traitor low!"

"THE BOTTLE IMP."

Imp of the Bottle! appear, appear,
Arm'd with fresh fluid our souls to cheer;
Thy features with mirth and good humour beaming,
Thy nectar luscious, and bright and creaming--
What is the name of the Bottle Sprite?
The Star of the Colonnade--Charley Wright.
Long be the precious beverage quaff'd!
Open your lips to receive the draught.
The magic power of the bright Champagne
Shall sooth the spirit and fire the brain;
And trouble and grief will vanish quite
From the happy realms of the Bottle Sprite.
To those who have long been estrang'd from mirth,
And weary moments have pass'd on earth;
On whom the storm of adversity lowers,
While, in secret, they sigh for happier hours,
O let not the Bottle Imp whisper in vain;
There's a cure for all care in this bright Champagne;
As the mist on the mountain melts away
At the radiant beams of the God of Day,
So, when the nectar hath brightened the heart,
The shadows of pain and sorrow depart,
And all the Blue Devils must wing their flight,
When a cork is drawn by the Bottle Sprite.
Imp of the Bottle! still gild our hours--
So shall our pathway be strew'd with flowers;
Harmony uninterrupted shall reign,
And the watchword for pleasure be "Wright's Champagne."
And be it our duty as well as delight,
To honour the draughts of the Bottle Sprite.

"THE RIVALS."

Fond Youths, ah! how shall I decide
According to your merit?--
Who shall the Seaman's FLESH deride--
Or who, the Parson's SPIRIT?

When the bold Tar proceeds to tell
His tale of amorous pain,
'Tis hard that one who pleads so well
Should ever plead in vain.

And when his suppliant rival sighs,
How can I say forbear!
Who can resist his piercing eyes,
Or scorn a Parson's prayer?

Ah! either lover to refuse
My virgin heart is loth;
And where it is so hard to choose,
'Tis well to cut you both!

"LOVE LAUGHS AT LOCKSMITHS."

"Marriageable foolish wenches are troublesome troops to keep."
OLD SAW.]

Come to my arms, my blushing maid,
Nor heed the padlock's strength;
Our love defies the Blacksmith's trade,
And I am yours--AT LENGTH!

Anon, the padlock we'll remove,
From where it lately hung;
And, if a scolding wife you prove,
I'll clap it on your tongue!

OTHELLO.

"OTHELLO'S OCCUPATION'S GONE."

What, Mungo! laid upon the shelf!
You seem in piteous plight,
Like your own broom you're stumpt yourself--
Poor Massa Lilywhite!

You thrive far better in a shower
Than in the sunny shine--
A plague upon the Comet's power,
That makes the days so fine!

Yet strive your drooping heart to raise,
Your sinking soul to cheer;
For muddy streets and dirty days
Will very soon be here.

And when those sloppy hours return,
Wealth shall be yours anon;
Nor poor Othello longer morn
His occupation gone.

"HIGH LIFE BELOW STAIRS."

"Fair Nymph of the perspiring brow,
Let these vain scruples cease,
While on thy rosy lips I now
Imprint the kiss of peace.

"O! let the ardent sighs you hear,
The vows of love I utter,
Steal gently on thy willing ear,
As smooth as melted butter.

"Always spare diet must be wrong--
'Tis weary, stale, and flat;
And having lived on lean so long,
'Tis time I turn to fat."

"O vile, unworthy man! forbear--
Such conduct who can brook?
Thus to desert thy lady fair,
To hug a greasy cook!

"I cannot to such wrongs submit,
But soon will clear the coast--
Hence, vile Sultans of the Spit!
For I will rule the roast.

"And never let me see you more,
As thus I've caught you tripping--
I didn't know my lord before
Had such a love for dripping."

IN

TWELVE STEPS,

FROM

DESIGNS

BY

ROBERT SEYMOUR.

_Circa 1829._]

THE DRUNKARD'S PROGRESS.

STEP THE FIRST

The March of Intellect implies
That men begin to think--
I leave their wisdom to the wise,
And sing the March of Drink!

Now let us make it our employ
The Drunkard's course to scan;
And mark the habits in the boy
Which ripen in the man:

Observe! this hopeful Sprig of Snip's
By stealth has seized the gin--
Applies the bottle to his lips,
And sucks the poison in.

Drink deep, thou liquor-loving brat!
Nor spare the cordial drop,
While the old folks enjoy their chat,
And gossip in the shop.

They taught thee first to love the juice,
And prove the maxim true,
That sauce for gander and for goose
Is sauce for gosling too!

STEP THE SECOND.

"My Dear, the morning's cold and raw,
And as I cannot stop,
Make haste, the daffy bottle draw,
And let us have a drop.

"Our little boy all fume and fret
I can't abide to see--
You and I always loved a wet,
And wherefore shouldn't he?

"Cut out for drinking he appears,
The feeling gives me pleasure;
Then never mind his tender years,
But give him ample measure."

And, Mrs. Snip, wet both his eyes;
So shall the lad inherit
His mother's thirsty properties,
And all his father's spirit!

For ways in which a child should go
To train him it is fit;
And as he grows in years, we know
He won't depart from it.

STEP THE THIRD.

White Conduit! in thy alcoves green,
While softly sighs the summer gale,
How many Nymphs and Swains are seen
To sip their tea or swig their ale!

And weekly here at Sabbath's close
The Hebrew gay ones still resort--
The taudry Belles and Dingy Beaux
Their party-colour'd togs to sport.

Why should not Snip, our man of measure,
With Spouse and Darling wander here?
To pass a Sunday eve in pleasure,
To blow a cloud and taste the beer!

And let young Hopeful have his fill--
His rising spirit why control?
"I loves," cries Snip, "to see him swill--
It makes the boy so very droll:

"Then seize the jug, and do not spare!
But be awake, thou man of stitches,
Or, by the powers, your hopeful Heir
Will spill the liqour on your breeches."

The rapid course of time we know;
Why waste it then in dry reflection?
Another week, no doubt, will show
Some farther progress to perfection.

STEP THE FOURTH.

Go on and prosper, knowing lads!
In life there's nothing like variety,
To see thee makes my spirit glad,
In such respectable society.

Let every care disperse in smoke,
Each anxious thought in beer be drown'd,
While you enjoy your game, and smoke--
Top-sawyer of the skittle-ground.

"Boy, bring the heavy, for I'm dry,
"And scrape a little ginger in it;
"And now I'm ready for a shy
"At knock 'em down, and bet I'll win it.

"How much more pleasant to be here,
"With friends to drink a social drop
"Of Wyatt's ale, or Barclay's beer,
"Than plodding in a humbug shop!

"'Twas Dad that taught me first to swill,
"(Come pass the pewter pot, and end it),
"And, whilst there's money in the till,
"The ould un knows that I will spend it."

Careers so brilliant why impede?
Vain every effort to instruct you!
But we shall learn as we proceed,
To what these courses must conduct you.

STEP THE FIFTH.

"Nymph of the Bar, accept my vows,
And by that glass of cordial Deady,
In me you'll find a faithful spouse
For love and liqour always ready.

"Let those two worthies have a dram,
For, though I'm getting rather mellow,
You'll always find me, as I am,
A d--d good natured jolly fellow.

"Come, keep the chalks all right, old dame,
I've got another glass before me--
If I like max, am I to blame?
Why daddy did the same before me."

"Lauk, sir, you take me by surprise--
But some men have a way so winning--
You guess my wishes by my eyes--
I'm nearly tir'd of liquor spinning.

"I cannot bear to answer--No;
And as it's cold and sloppy weather,
Do let us have, before you go,
A drop of Cherry-bounce together."

Short be your courtship, worthy pair,
With all the happiness you merit;
When both such CORDIAL feelings share,
No doubt it will proceed with SPIRIT.

STEP THE SIXTH.

Farewell to courtship's happy hours!
Hail to the joys of wedded life--
How soon the sweets have turned to sours!
A drunken Husband--scolding Wife.

Was it for this fair blooming Maid,
This scene of sad, domestic jar,
That, by the wiles of man betray'd,
You left the tap room and the bar?

Why, thou unworthy slave of drink!
Thy partner's peace thus plant a dagger in,
And hastening to destruction's brink,
Steer homeward's nightly drunk and staggering?

"You filthy wretch, what! drunk again--
Too soon will poverty assail us;
Can't you a single night refrain
From tippling in that cursed ale-house?

"You little dream, you worthless sot,
What mischief o'er your head is brewing,
You'll part with everything we've got
And bring your wife and child to ruin."

"Why that I'm fresh can't be denied,
But steady, my good wench, go steady--
For, by that flask you seek to hide,
To RUIN you have got already!"

STEP THE SEVENTH.

Old Snip deceas'd, his hopeful heir,
To earn an honest bob,
Has open'd shop for leather ware,
And turned a drunken Snob:

"A pair of dancing slippers bring--
Let them be small enough;
I wish to have them quite the thing,
And let the soles be buff."

"Buff soles I haven't in my shop;
All that were here are gone;
But, Madam, here's a prime buff top--
Do please to try it on."

"How dare you treat a Lady so?
Begone, you saucy brute!
Your conduct all the town shall know--
Try on a fellow's boot!"

"Why, Ma'am, you're somewhat out of tune,
And rather too particular;
I've had a drop this afternoon,
And can't stand perpendicular.

"You see, Ma'am, I'm a jolly dog--
My throat is always dry;
And when I've had my whack of grog,
Why, 'damn the shop!' say I."

STEP THE EIGHTH.

Behold our thirsty hero now,
To keep the game up always zealous,
With all his honours on his brow,
And Chairman of the FUNNY FELLOWS.

"I humbly move," cries Lawyer Glum,
"That all our glasses charg'd may be--
I can't sit any longer dumb--
'The Chairman's health with three times three.'

"We know him for a jovial boy--
Long may he flourish at our mess,
And still continue to enjoy
Prosperity--Health--Happiness."

"Hurra!" cries Ellwide, "here's his health:
We'll give the bowl of punch no quarter--
Thro' life, in poverty or wealth,
I'll stick to him like bricks and mortar."

"While I've a tanner in my till,
Or in my purse can sport a bob,
I'll vow eternal friendship still,
And share my stock with honest Snob."

Friendship's a most endearing tie,
Unless it comes your cash to borrow,
Then all its bright attractions die
With "Can't you call again to-morrow?"

STEP THE NINTH.

EMBARRASSMENT.

Would you a Sov'reign's value know--
Let this be quickly done;
To some dear friend or neighbour go,
And try to borrow one.

Now drunkenness has had its day,
Snob's ways and means grow taper;
But why not friendship's call obey,
And draw his pal the draper?

"Ellwide, this morning I've dropp'd in--
Our trade is very slack;
For that I shouldn't care a pin,
But I've a bill come back.

"Any loose cash you have to spare,
I wish that you would lend;
In these dilemmas I'm aware
There's nothing like a friend."

Cries Ellwide, while his bag of blunt
He hides from hapless Snob,
"Thro' the whole house if you were to hunt
You wouldn't find a bob.

"I'm sorry it should happen so,
But poverty's no crime;
You're always welcome here, you know--
Look in some other time.

STEP THE TENTH.

Oh! many are the ills of life,
Past, present, and to come--
Debt, want of cash, a scolding wife,
And last, not least, a Bum.

Ah! who can tell, but those who know
Of poverty the pangs,
When, floored by fate, to quod we go,
In ruthless Bailiff's fangs?

"And must I, then, to prison go,
"And leave my wife and cub?
"Farewell to larking and to grog--
Farewell my Funny Club.

"The sun of jollity has set,
"And ruin's day has risen;
"Alack a day! that love of wet
"Should drive a man to prison."

Clean'd out, and down upon your luck,
'Tis needless to complain;
And publican and butcher Pluck
Present their bills in vain.

"Now, blow my carcase, things look queer,
"This here's a pretty job;
"Two rare long bills for meat and beer--
"You've done us, Master Snob."

STEP THE ELEVENTH.

Oh! how delightful is the hour
That sets the hapless Debtor free;
When, rescued from the Gaoler's power,
He breaths the air of liberty!

Dejected, pale, and worn with grief,
Deserted by each sunshine friend,
Where shall poor Snob obtain relief?
How shall his prison troubles end?

Cheer up thy drooping heart, old boy.
And bid thy partner dry her tears;
On thee hath dawn'd a day of joy--
A brother and a friend appears.

He comes to ope thy prison door,
To save thee in the hour of sadness--
Thy fainting spirit to restore,
And cheer it with the oil of gladness.

With fortune's favours blest again,
Thy sky no more is overcast--
From drink and Funny Clubs refrain,
And take sad warning by the past.

So shall you shun domestic strife,
And discord's angry tongue shall cease;
And brightly, at the close of life,
Your sun shall set in joy and peace.

STEP THE LAST.

Can this poor sinking wretch be he
Of Funny Clubs the pride--
The man of cribbage, grog, and glee,
Who ne'er his liquor shy'd?

Farewell to Mirth? Disease and Death
Are staring in his face;
And feebly now he draws his breath--
His pulse declines apace.

The Doctor gives no hopes, alas!
The case admits no doubt,
Thou dropsied victim of the glass,
Thy glass is nearly out.

The star of joy has set in night,
And drink has done for Snob;
And neighbour Coffin, opposite,
Is gaping for a job.

Unhappy man! the game is up;
Thy moments number'd here;
Thy Spouse hath brought the stirrup cup;
Departure's hour is near.

The Drunkard's progress may be slow--
'Tis always insecure;
And, by experience sad, we know
The termination sure.

IN

Nine Steps

_ROBERT SEYMOUR._]

THE PUGILIST'S PROGRESS.

STEP THE FIRST.

And, oh! it is a pleasant thing
To mark the dawn of merit,
And the progressive march to sing
Of true pugnacious spirit.

The future Champion first observe,
A thriving lusty sprout,
Boldly and with unshrinking nerve,
Attack his nurse's snout.

Truly 'tis early days to bruise;
Yet manfully he strives
And with effect he seems to use
His little bunch of fives.

Go it, you hardest, hopeful kid!
Bestow another teaser;
Those active mawleys why forbid
To tap your nurse's sneezer?

Go on and prosper in your race--
When childhood's hours are gone,
Your after years will ne'er disgrace
The promise of their dawn.

May milling honours soon be thine--
Soon may you learn to fib;
And may your fame in history shine,
With that of Spring and Cribb.

STEP THE SECOND.

Alas! since Cain and Abel's day,
I tell it with a sigh,
Brothers will cross each other's way,
Turn to, and have a shy.

Where'er we cast our eyes around,
Throughout this vale of tears,
Bones of contention will be found
To set them by the ears.

The bone, as here, may be a taw;
With some, estates or wives;
Some settle their disputes by law,
And others with their fives.

'Tis said, a truly pleasing sight
Are brethren that agree;
But angry brethren matched to fight
Are not so well to see.

How fearlessly our milling sprout
Again has got to work,
And sarving his big brother out,
Has fairly drawn his cork.

Soon in a higher sphere he'll move,
His pluck requires no spur;
And none can doubt that he will prove
An ugly customer.

STEP THE THIRD

The force of reason's out of date,
I sing the force of fist,
Which carries with it such a weight,
That nothing can resist.

Then idle is the hackneyed chaff
About the march of mind;
The boxer in his sleeve may laugh--
He leaves that march behind.

To bruising fame aspiring still,
Why should his ardour cool?
Our hero has contrived to mill
The Champion of the School.

And there in triumph he appears,
With victory elate;
While his opponent, drown'd in tears,
Bemoans his hapless fate.

The tribute of our praise receive,
For you have earned it now;
And victory, ere long shall weave
Fresh laurels for your brow.

And as we clearly see your bent,
Be sure throughout your course,
Instead of force of argument,
Your argument is force.

STEP THE FOURTH.

At the true St. Giles's slang,
Of eloquence the soul,
Few worthies, I believe, can bang
The Men of Dust and Coal.

Go it, your hardest, Dusty Bob,
For once you're not awake;
Our Hero soon your precious nob
Will spoil, and no mistake!

Tho' a mere novice on the town,
I'll bet he beats you hollow;
Two Coveys are already down--
And 'tother soon must follow.

Egad! your topsails must be lower'd,
I think you've caught a tartar;
What! three to one, and yet be floor'd!
My Pinks! what are you after?

Pursue, brave youth, your bold career,
Victorious o'er each foe;
To look at, tho' you're rather queer,
You're very good to go.

Your sturdy frame and courage high
Require a little science--
Then up your Castor you may shy,
And bid the Ring defiance.

STEP THE FIFTH.

As candid dealing is my plan,
I mention without blushing,
You'll scarcely meet a fighting man
That isn't fond of lushing.

And whether it is beer or gin,
There cannot be a doubt,
That when the liquor enters in,
Discretion marches out.

Our Hero, from a row or spree
Always the last to shirk,
With a prime Fancy Cove we see
Go manfully to work.

With all his skill and all his strength,
The latter seems distress'd,
And, meeting with his match at length,
Will come off second best.

Then ponder well, you fighting men,
Nor at the yokels scoff,
Or by a novice, now and then,
You may get polished off.

Then persevere, my hero tough,
Your manly course pursue,
For, with a foe, however rough,
Your game must bring you through.

STEP THE SIXTH

Hail to the Ring, for I am one
That love the Fancy's freaks,
And Fate preserve the fistic fun,
From Parsons and from Beaks!

For I remember well the time,
The golden age of fight,
When poor old Dan was in his prime,
And Johnson's star was bright:

Then, disregarding punishment,
How boldly they went in,
On victory alone intent,
Each did his best to win!

Then every British Pugilist,
To all foul play averse,
Settled a fight by weight of fist,
And not by weight of purse.

Reviving those good days of old,
Our gallant Hero see,
An English boxer's fame uphold,
And crown'd with victory.

So may you in full splendour shine,
The Stars of fight among,
And may the Champion's belt be thine,
And may you wear it long!

STEP THE SEVENTH.

Hurrah! the Champion's belt is thine,
So may it long remain!
And when its honours you resign,
Restore it free from stain.

And still your study let it be
To steer a course that's right;
As moderate in victory,
As resolute in fight.

So, when retiring from the Ring,
Your milling days shall end,
Your praise the Laureate's muse shall sing--
You ne'er shall lack a friend.

Let honesty be still your plan,
That when your race is run,
The cheers of every Fancy man
May hail your setting sun.

Tho' of the Pugilistic tree
You've reached the topmost bough,
Fresh honours still in store may be,
To crown your conqu'ring brow.

O, let no crossing, while you live,
Your bright escutcheon dim;
And while this sound advice I give,
I heave a sigh for Jem.

STEP THE EIGHTH

Our Hero's fighting race is run,
His course of conquest ends,
The brightness of his setting sun,
Still cheered by all his friends.

Far pleasanter to tap his beer,
And bid the liquor flow,
Than tap, with punishment severe,
The claret of a foe.

His manly conduct, and his game,
Have proudly brought him through;
And let all Cross Coves see with shame
What honesty will do.

Still may prosperity increase;
Blest with a blooming rib--
May happiness, content, and peace,
Long flourish in his crib.

There may the Fancy Lads repair,
A friendly bowl to drain--
To puff their sorrows in the air,
And bid good humour reign.

And let the whining Canter see--
Creature of narrow heart!--
A man a Pugilist may be,
Yet act a Briton's part.

STEP THE NINTH.

Retired from business and the Ring,
We bid our gallant friend farewell--
His fame each Fancy Bard shall sing,
And Fancy Legends long shall tell.

This Silver Cup, brave man, receive--
A tribute to your merit due--
One sigh of deep regret we heave,
And kindly say--adieu, adieu!

And may the boon we now bestow
Be hallowed oft with generous wine;
And may the cup of kindness flow
To gallant deeds of "auld lang syne."

Ye, who aspire to fistic fame,
And wish a glorious race to run,
Remember Belcher's deathless name,
And how Tom Cribb his laurels won!

This maxim strongly I impress--
Let honesty your course direct,
And, tho' you can't command success,
You always may command respect.

If to my warning you're awake,
Whene'er your milling days may end,
A foe thro' life you'll never make,
And never will you lose a friend!

Embracing humorous
SKETCHES

BY

THE BROTHERS
R. AND G. CRUIKSHANK,
And others.

_Circa 1827-8-9._]

THE SQUIRE CAUGHT IN HIS OWN TRAP:

OR

THE DANGER OF SPRING GUNS.

Heaven prosper you, most worthy Squire,
And give you strength of nerve
To guard your hares from poacher's wire,
Your pheasants to preserve.

With game laws and spring guns prepare
To bring those rogues to shame,
Who with unhallowed hand shall dare
To meddle with your game;

And set a close and constant watch
Upon the vile encroachers--
So may your guns or keepers catch
The sturdy lawless poachers.

What, oh! my Squire, can this be you
O'ertaken by mishap!
Capsiz'd by retribution due,
And caught in your own trap!

Ah! fortune plays some curious strokes,
And many a cunning elf,
Who dug a pit for other folks,
Hath tumbled in himself.

THE TEMPTATION OF OBADIAH

Oh, Damsels! hide those tempting charms!
Kindle not thoughts impure!
Nor from beloved Rachel's arms
Her Obadiah lure!

Nay, seek not with enticing words
My passions to assail--
Begone ye naughty dickey-birds,
For flesh is very frail!

I cannot bear thy wanton gaze--
From pinching me abstain--
I must not walk in crooked ways--
Nor go to Elbow Lane.

But harsh to thee I will not prove,
Stiff Quaker as I am;
Truly, I feel my spirit move
To treat thee with a dram.

To thy petitions I incline,
Though I abhor the sin:
Say, wilt thou have a glass of wine
Or Hodges' cordial gin?

For I am fairly in thy power,
And hence I cannot flee.
Oh, Rachel! in this sinful hour
I must not think of thee.

THE MAN WOT MENDS THE SOVEREIGN'S WAYS.

"The man wot mends the Sovereign's ways"--
What will the satire end in?
The world may learn, with some amaze,
A Sov'reign's ways want mending.

Say, Wellington, can this be you?
His Majesty's adviser!
Who dares so bold a course pursue--
The King's Macadamiser.

To say what next we may expect
Would be as weak as vain;
STRAIGHT-FORWARD dealing don't expect
From lads in CROOKED-LANE.

What right have folks to understand
The course that you've chalk'd out?
Just show the weapon in your hand,
And bid them, "Ax about."

King Arthur ne'er can do amiss,
Then in your schemes be SOLO;
And let your motto still be this--
"SIC JUBEO, SIC VOLO."

And if the precious Bridge Committee
Have in expense been rash,
Punish the upstarts of the City--
ABRIDGE them of the cash.

THE MAN WOT DRIVES A PAIR OF HACKS.

A Coach, your Honor?--Vaterman,
Open the door, my Covey;
To do vot's right is still my plan,
And better vip ne'er drove ye.

To doubt my honour, what man dare?
I'd floor him for his trouble--
Tho' ven I gets a drunken FARE,
'Tis FAIR to charge him double.

Then, as to galloping my prads,
Paddington ne'er surpass'd me--
Tho' they're a set of knowing lads,
Right as a trivet, blaust me!

I am a blade that never brags,
And loves a cheerful cup;
Tho' sometimes Coachee--sometimes nags--
Of course must be PULL'D-UP.

Of late, we've suffer'd in our trade--
But grumbling's of no sarvice;
These vile infernal Cabs have played
The devil with the Jarvies.

'Tis time to wash my gob with beer,
Or summat short a dram on--
For vats the use of standing here,
And pitching so much gammon.

KING BILLY'S BEER BILL;

OR,

THE THREE B.B.B.'s

Come, one and all, both great and small,
With voices loud and clear,
And let us sing, bless Billy our King,
Who 'bated the tax upon beer.

_Chorus._--For I likes a drop of good beer, I--do's,
I likes a drop of good beer,
And ---- his eyes whoever tries,
To rob a poor man of his beer.

Let minister's shape the duty on Cape,
And cause Port wine to be dear,
So that they keep the bread and meat cheap,
And gives us a drop of good beer.--For I likes, &c.

* * * * *

Long may King Billy reign,
And be to his subjects dear,
And wherever he goes we'll wollop his foes,
Only give us a skin full of beer.--For we like, &c.

SMELLING A RAT.

"Here, Nan, you hussy, bring a light,
What mean this sword and hat?
Something, I'm certain isn't right--
By Heaven's, I smell a rat!

"And soon the vile intruder's fate
This cudgel shall determine,
I'll make it play about his pate,
And sacrifice the vermin.

"Doubtless, that hat must own a head--
That swords a sign of guilt,
And, in the traitress to my bed,
I'll plunge it to the hilt.

"Well for her swain if, to his side,
His sword had still been buckled,
In his heart's blood it shall be dy'd
For making me a cuckold.

"My wrath shall hurl my victims now
Down to the realms of Pluto!
What! shall vile horns disgrace my brow,
And I be dubbed Cornuto?"

Ah! why evince, you winning sex,
Such naughty inclination?
Sure you were only born to vex
The Lords of the Creation.

CONTEMPT.

"Lord bless your Honour, stand a bob,
Our's is a dreadful case:
In Chancery we've got our nob,
And cannot leave the place.

"Contempt has brought us, as you see,
Into a pretty line--
God bless your honour, set us free,
We're tired of Number Nine.

"How should a costermonger pay
Attorney's bill of fees?
We haven't got the blunt to-day,
To buy us bread and cheese.

"There's hardly one of us that knows
Why here he has been lugged in;
And with the cold we're nearly froze,
Kind-hearted Mr. Sugden."

You have the sympathy no doubt,
Of General Solicitor;
But vain the hope that you'll get out
Through your illustrious visitor.

Yon luckless dame, in Jailor's claws,
Grabbed with a stock of gin,
For bold contempt of prison laws
Will sooner far get in.

BIRDS OF A FEATHER.

There's a prime bit of stuff to go,
No better, or I'm blow'd--
And narra wehicle I know
Can pass us on the road.

Kem-arp, my cripple! he's the lad,
To whisk along in style,
He'll run agin the trotting prad
And give him half a mile.

Who cares a farden for the veather,
Or if vith rain ve're duck'd;
Birds of a feather flock together,
And some must soon be pluck'd.

Good judges may be taken in,
And lose their blunt, no doubt;
And tho' some say Dutch Sam must vin,
Ned Neal may sarve him out.

He's at his proper fighting veight--
Heavier nor Sam by far;
Tho' Sam's all right, and no debate,
And fine as any star.

Vell, vin or lose, they'll both do right,
'Twill be a famous mill;
I hope no Beak will stop the fight--
Lord save us from a spill.

A BEAK.

"Pray, Mr. Editor, what is a Beak?"

"A Beak," says Jem Bee, in his slang Dictionary, "is the Sitting Magistrate, or one who walks or rides abroad, seeking whom he may quod, or whose lawful (query, UNLAWFUL) amusements he may curtail."

Here we have a Portrait of a celebrated Gentleman of this description in the East, together with a couple of his customers, whose colloquy may be instructive:

"Jack, twig that ERE swag-bellied Cove,
With wisage round and sleek--
You knows him, don't you?"--"Yes, by Jove,
Vy, that's a bloated BEAK.

"Knows him! I knows him vel enough,
And if I don't it's odd:
A few months back that damn'd old muff
Committed me to quod!

"Vat right has he our schemes to check?
Vat right--the Devil fish him!
Lord send he'd break his precious neck--
That's all the harm I vish him!"

DESCENT OF A BEAK:

OR

FLIGHT OF THE FANCY.

Ill-omen'd birds! Is this the way
That you enforce the laws,
To pounce upon your hapless prey
With your unhallowed claws?

Your frown the fancy well may dread,
The Ring will soon be no go--
Why should you take away the bread
Of Oliver and Fogo?

To spoil our sport why should you seek,
And for fresh victims prowl?
By Heaven! I hate a crooked beak,
And a "white feather'd" owl.

If to all discord you're awake,
You need not travel far--
Let your sharp scouts their station take
Within the Chancery Bar;

For there your Worshipfuls might hear
Some orators harangue
In terms so virulent and queer
That flats would call it slang.

And even you the Great Unpaid,
Are not _eadem semper_,
But on occasions, I'm afraid,
Are apt to lose your temper.

MY DARLING DUCK.

Let those love now who never loved before,
Let those who always loved now love the more.

O thou, for whom my throbbing heart
Beats with unceasing thump,
Thou art the smartest of the smart,
The plumpest of the plump.

Thy breath is fresh as April morn,
Blushing in maiden pride,
And pearly drops thy brow adorns,
Like fat on bacon fried.

Fain would I woo thee to my arms,
And by this tender chuck,
I yield a captive to thy charms,
My darling maid--MY DUCK.

A SELECT VESTRY IN DEEP DISCUSSION.

Ye virtuous and voracious few,
I greet ye with respect,
And every mark of honour due
To worthies so SELECT!

Ye Parish Potentates, all hail!
Long may your reign endure
On richest dainties to regale,
Wrung from the starving poor!

Keen be your stomachs, honest souls!
May plenty crown your board;
The means by which you swell your jowls
The PARISH can afford.

Then be not from your turtle barr'd--
None but a captious sinner
Would grudge to men that WORK SO HARD!
A LITTLE BIT OF DINNER.

Your deeds so worthy of applause,
I wish not to expose.
Now go and wash your greasy paws
In water of the rose.

A FLAT BETWEEN TWO SHARPS.

Alas, poor Flat! poor Johnny Green!
I pity your sad case;
Two precious SHARPS you're now between,
And they are THOROUGH BASE.

Whate'er your cards it matters not,
This is no time for grinning;
For trust me, friend, you havn't got
The slightest CHANCE OF WINNING.

Don't fancy you are deep enough,
Tho' fool and rogue no doubt;
You'll find you were not UP TO SNUFF,
When these have cleaned you out.

And when you mourn your blunt all gone,
This truth will soon be known;
That HONOUR they don't count upon--
They win by TRICKS alone.

And cards are but the devil's books,
Therefore be wise and shut 'em;
And when you meet two SHUFFLING rooks,
Take my advice and CUT 'em.

And ever be upon your guard,
Or you'll be taken in;
The ACE may be the highest card,
But KNAVES are sure to win.

HIGH CHURCH AND LOW CHURCH;

OR,

THE RECTOR AND HIS CURATE.

----"The superiority of some men is merely local. They are great, because their associates are little."--DR. JOHNSON.

OR,

ANDREW AND HIS SPOUSE.

AN AQUATIC EXCURSION BY _STEAM_ AND _BOAT_.

Illustrated with Humourous Designs
by
ROBERT CRUIKSHANK.

I want a name--a name to give my tale,
For nameless narratives will not be read:
Books, by their titles, now succeed or fail;
And every _tale_ should have a fitting _head_.

List then--the _title_ of my Book shall be,
Not _Sir_, nor yet _My Lord_, but an "Aquatic
Trip" to a place that borders on the sea,
But borders not on aught aristocratic.]

ANDREW AND HIS SPOUSE.

An Aquatic Excursion by _Steam_ and _Boat_!

The hero of my _story_, which is _true_,
Was a free-mason of uncommon merits,
Who kept the Mason's Arms; and there were few
More _spirited_ than he in selling _spirits_.

Andrew I wot, for so his name was spelt,
Was born (but this perchance you have surmised)
In London town:--in Adam Street he dwelt,
Which _all_ Eve's sons have not _Mc Adamized_.

As scaling--love impell'd, a lofty wall,
One luckless night, he fell, in vast alarm;
But caught a beam, and haply _broke_ his fall,
For which his fall retorting, _broke_ his arm.

What chances may befal none may foretell;
All are the sport of destiny unknown;
Thus Andrew kept the "_Mason's Arms_" full well,
But was not able to preserve his _own_.

Still he was not discouraged, even although
His love had so unluckily began;
But taking soon a chance of joy or woe
In Hymen's lottery, _Andrew_ drew forth _Ann_.

Quiet they lived, and happily, 'tis said,
From all domestic strife and discord far;
Andrew laid down the _Law_, and Ann obey'd,
For he, she knew, was bred up to the _Bar_.

Quoth Andrew to his wife one summer's day:
"My dear, if you approve, I have a scheme,
To take a trip while all the world are gay,
To Margate, love, and we can go by _Steam_.

My honest cousin John, who is, you know,
A quiet kind of lad, and free from sin,
Has kindly promised, if we like to go,
While we are _out_, to take care of the _Inn_."

She liked his project much, but did not know
That _steam_ was then the order of the age;
She thought they should, like Fanny Kemble, go,
Or, like the Elephant, upon the _stage_.

Here Andrew differ'd from his quiet spouse,
Mild as she was, and gentle as he thought her;
Said he "The _steam_ as every one allows,
Impels one far more quickly through the _water_."

"But if the boiler burst, which much I fear,
Then we, and all the rest, in air are blown."
Quoth Andrew, "No: if that should hap, my dear;
Instead of going _up_ we should go _down_."

"Really, my love," said Ann, "with joke and fun
You draw such scenes as surely never man drew,
And are in fact so _merry_ with your fun,
That I should take you for a _Merry Andrew_."

Now by the water side--a noted part--
A tavern stands, which men have christen'd "Ship,"
And hence 'twas needful that our friends should start,
The following day, for their intended trip.

Therefore, when Sol had risen, so had they
For they were early, like the sun, and steady:
And when the _Steam-boat came_ beside the quay,
Andrew, his luggage, and his wife, were ready.

The hour had now arrived, and all was life:
The waiter said the _packet_ was _afloat_;
The bills were paid, and Andrew and his wife
Now left the _Ship_, and hastened to the _boat_.

They'd no idea of such a crowd i'fecks!
When they embarked, for no one had yet told'em;
There were three hundred people on the decks,
The cabin and the _hold_ would hardly _hold_'em.

The vessel started soon,--her every chink
Filled up with luggage, women, boys and men;
Swiftly she cut the spray, you cannot think
What _whey_ (way) she made upon the water then.

Ah, Master Andrew! you could not divine
The woe of sailing when the wind's not aft;
Or you'd have been more _crafty_, I opine,
Than ever to have entered such a _craft_.

'Twas summer, yet the wind was passing cool;
The Captain frown'd, and looked exceeding cross;
The vessel, like some boys I knew at school,
Was playing with the waves at _pitch_ and _toss_.

There was a dandy there--you scarce could tell
It was a wig he wore; the _beau_ did right
To go to Truefit's, for it fitted well,
All Truefit's wigs, I'm told, _fit true_ and tight.

Two men were arguing, with wooden legs,
No doubt each thought the other was mistaken;
The cabin boy let fall a plate of _eggs_
And broke them all, although he saved his _bacon_.

There were some ladies as it often haps,
Both plebeian and patrician--high and low--
And Andrew thought that many set their _caps_
At the young men, in hopes to catch a _beau_.

There were some _butcher's_ daughters, wondrous proud
Of their sweet persons!--pride I must condemn--
Who once or twice were heard to say aloud,
That nothing in the ship was _meet_ for them.

Now the good vessel, keeping on her way,
Had one effect on Andrew and his wife;
Who were, not sick to death, as some would say--
But sick enough to make them sick of life.

All this to Andrew and his Spouse, I trow,
Was novelty--and yet it had no charms,
For both, before the night, were heard to vow
They wished they had not left the Mason's Arms.

Close to the rails they stood--and you might see
Their notions of delight began to waver;
When Andrew's wife fell over in the sea,
And might have drown'd; but Andrew shouted "Save her!"

Perhaps you think he jumped into the water;
No, gentle reader, no; that would not do:
_You_ might have done so for a wife or daughter,
But _you_ are _one_, and _you_ and Andrew, _two_.

But some one seeing that he was no lover
Of aught save eating, drinking, and his life,
Came close behind the man and pushed him over,
With "Don't you see, you brute, go save your wife."

Just at the time a little vessel passed,
(Andrew had caught his wife)--it was the Percy;
The captain thought it best to put about,
And _take them in_, for they were crying mercy!

The _Steam-boat_ kept her way, although the wind was bad,
Margate they made, the crew cried "That's your sort!"
The band struck up a tune, the rest were glad
As tipplers would be, to get at the _Port_.

But Andrew and Spouse, just as they were
About to sink, and thought that they were undone,
Got safe on board the Percy--wind was fair,
And the tight little boat, was on its way to London.

She soon arrived, of time there was no loss,
The sailors rowed them quickly to the land
And now, five miles at least from _Charing Cross_,
Stood Andrew and his Spouse upon the _Strand_.

They hastened home, for home had many charms;
Thither they went, and none could well go faster;
For Andrew knew full well the Mason's _Arms_
Were always _open_ to receive their master.

They'd _seen_ enough of _sea_; and their immersion
In the _salt-sea_ wave had pickled them so well,
They never made another _sea_ excursion;
And therefore _you see_! I've but little more to tell.

From that day forth, when Andrew and his wife
Disputed, which was often it would seem,
His spouse replied, "Remember, pray, my life,
That 'tis not always best _to go by Steam_!"

My tale is done,--about a week ago
When passing through the City, I heard tell
That "Andrew and his Spouse" were dead, and so
_Bow bell_ was tolling for this _Beau_ and _Belle_.

MORAL.

Hereafter then, when'er we need advice
About a journey to the East or West;
We must obey our spouses in a trice,
And _always do_ what _they_ imagine best.

"BEHIND TIME."

"_Coach, Sir! Lord love your soul, the coach has been gone these three quarters of an hour; it's the most regglarest coach as is, and always starts to a minute!_"

"_You dont say so! Lawks! vot a precious row my vife vill kick up! She's a coming arter me as fast as she can trot!_"

GEORGE CRUIKSHANK'S "_Illustrations of Time_."

"HARD TIMES."

"_I say, SHUFFLETON, these d--d Overseers pay no respect to Persons!_"

"_No, DOCTOR, nor to PARSONS either!_"

GEORGE CRUIKSHANK'S "_Illustrations of Time_."

"TERM TIME."

"_Gentlemen, it was a very fine Oyster, indeed! The Court awards you a shell each!_"

GEORGE CRUIKSHANK'S "_Illustrations of Time_."

"TIME COME!"

"_Time! Bring him up, TOM! JACK can't stand another round!_"

"_With a hook! I'm blow'd if he ha'nt 'cut his stick!_'"

"_A guinea to a shilling on JACK! Time's up! It's all over! JACK'S won the day! I'm blest if we shan't all be lagged!_"

GEORGE CRUIKSHANK'S "_Illustrations of Time_."

"TAKING TIME BY THE FORE-LOCK."

"_I say, BILL, I've got his ticker: pull his precious nob off!_"

"_I'm sniggered if I don't!_"

GEORGE CRUIKSHANK'S "_Illustrations of Time_."

"PUDDING TIME."

"_Ha, Snooks, we had given you up altogether!_"

"_I thought you said four o'clock, my dear fellow?_"

"_So I did, but it is now five._"

"_Yes, but four always means five._"

"_Not with those who tell the truth, and as I am one of that sort, you will know I mean what I say in future; but sit down 'better late than never.'--Mary bring the fragments._"

GEORGE CRUIKSHANK'S "_Illustrations of Time_."

"WASTE OF TIME."

"_Scrub away, Jenny! I'll warrant we get the dirty toad white?_"

"_O, Missee! your water so dam hot, you scald poor Sambo!_"

"_Drat your black carcase! we'll make something of you at last, if we skin you! Go it, Molly! rub his life time out!_"

GEORGE CRUIKSHANK'S "_Illustrations of Time_."

"CHRISTMAS TIMES."

"_You arn't the rigglar Dustman, blow ye! For a farden I'd break your blessed conk!_"

"_I'm as good a Dustman as you any day in the veek, my tulip!_"

GEORGE CRUIKSHANK'S "_Illustrations of Time_."

THE QUEAN WOT CLAIMS THE BREECHES.