Chapter IX (9)

Beware of false prophets, who predict of the times, which, but for thy simplicity, would be for them "out of joint"—of the seasons, of which they know not, save that they yield them a profitable harvest,—and of the winds, for which they care not, so that they blow them good; but turn from them awhile, and regard the Hieroglyphicum in Obscuro I here set before thee, and the interpretation thereof; and, if it come not as I predict, thou may'st guess the reason why. Unlucky planets rule the State Kitchen; and the great kettle being filled by Aquarius, with Sol in opposition, an unfriendly boil is produced, which maketh the place so hot that the Cooks find it hard to stay within, though loth to go out. Moreover, being of one mind as to the making of _a mess_, but differing as to the manner thereof, they have fallen to fighting, to settle the question, and are all going to pot together. By a touch of my wand, behold them transmogrified into a _Lamb's head_, served with a plentiful dressing of strong _Durham_ mustard, a _little Jack_ clinging to the side, as though he wished himself out of this pretty kettle of fish, and a fowl, though, by his looks, no chicken, attempting his escape in the form of a winged _Cupid_. He does not like his company, and has made his bow—behold it in his hand. Another fish, more like a _Sir John_ than a sturgeon, seems as though his berth was far from pleasant. The Mistress, alarmed by the noise, comes to the window to see what is the matter; an ancient Master Cook, from _Arthur's_, stands, ladle in hand, his fingers itching to skim the scum off as it rises. An old Kitchen Maid, who, though pensioned off, will still have a finger in every pie, hath been stirring the fire with a worn-out _broom_-handle, (perchance she hath slyly put in a pinch of gunpowder) and is now playing the part of blow-bellows. She seemeth, by the satisfactionated curl of her nose, to be happy to see them all in hot water.

Now, as to the application hereof, every man must judge for himself; but of a verity it doth to me appear, that too many cooks will spoil any broth. And, while I speak of cookery, let me advise thee as to thy treatment of that which a departed wiseacre denominated the "worse than useless root." If, rejecting his advice, none but this fruit will content thee, let me counsel thee to follow my example—having well roasted my Murphy, I take him "_cum grano salis_." Now, touching other mundane matters, thou wilt herein find copious instructions, sage predictions, and wholesome advice, on which thou mayest surely rely, though I am no M.N.S., which can but mean Member of No Society.

Thine ever,
RIGDUM FUNNIDOS.

1839.] DECEMBER.

CHRISTMAS PIECES.
A SOLILOQUIAL CARE-ALL.

Here come December and the brats again! what pain! rushing like untamed kittens o'er a cataract. Tables turn'd, bottles broke, cups crack'd—All conspire to add to my distractions, to shew their skill in Christmas pieces, and in fractions.

How little dream'd I of the toil and trouble
Which wait on those who dare to carry double!
Why did I leave my life of singularity,
In my excess of Christian love and charity?
Too surely did I feel my courage falter
At that sad step which led up to the altar.
Since first I tied the matrimonial knot
Each year has added to my luckless lot;
I should not mind _one_ little babe, no more.
But, _poínt du_ TWO, I don't want half a score;
Yet still, in quick succession, lo! they rise,
A pretty string of pains and penal-ties.

_Family Ties._
]

From schoolmasters abroad the yearly bills
Run high among life's unsurmounted _hills_,
And pretty hillocks are those things call'd extras,
At doubling which they're all so ambidextrous;
Forgetting still, which greatly grieves my bowels,
To send back silver forks, or spoons, or towels.
Last, but not least, are those uncivil wars,
Poetic license calls domestic jars,
And which I find, though far from nice or fickle,
Without exception, yield the worst of pickle.

DECEMBER.—"THE WINTER OF OUR DISCONTENT."

Mamma had kept the house in Duke Street for more than two years. I recollected some of the chairs and tables, from dear old Squiggle, and the bowl in which I had made that famous rum-punch, the evening she went away, which she and my sisters left untouched, and I was obliged to drink after they were gone; but that's not to the purpose.

Think of my sister Mary's luck! That chap, Waters, fell in love with her, and married her; and she now keeps her carriage, and lives in state near Squiggle. I offered to make it up with Waters; but he bears malice, and never will see or speak to me. He had the impudence, too, to say that he took in all letters for mamma at Squiggle; and that, as mine were all begging letters, he burned them, and never said a word to her concerning them. He allowed mamma fifty pounds a year, and, if she were not such a fool, she might have had three times as much; but the old lady was high and mighty, forsooth, and would not be beholden, even to her own daughter, for more than she actually wanted. Even this fifty pounds she was going to refuse; but when I came to live with her, of course I wanted pocket money as well as board and lodging, and so I had the fifty pounds for _my_ share, and eked out with it as well as I could.

Old Bates and the Captain, between them, gave mamma a hundred pounds when she left me (she had the deuce's own luck, to be sure—much more than ever fell to _me_, I know), and as she said she _would_ try and work for her living, it was thought best to take a house and let lodgings, which she did. Our first and second floor paid us four guineas a week, on an average; and the front parlour and attic made forty pounds more. Mamma and Eliza used to have the front attic; but _I_ took that, and they slept in the servants' bed room. Lizzy had a pretty genius for work, and earned a guinea a week that way; so that we had got nearly two hundred a year over the rent to keep house with,—and we got on pretty well. Besides, women eat nothing; my women didn't care for meat for days together sometimes,—so that it was only necessary to dress a good steak or so for me.

Mamma would not think of my continuing in the Post-office. She said her dear John, her husband's son, her gallant soldier, and all that, should remain at home, and be a gentleman—which I was, certainly, though I didn't find fifty pounds a year very much to buy clothes and be a gentleman upon; to be sure, mother found me shirts and linen, so that _that_ wasn't in the fifty pounds. She kicked a little at paying the washing too; but she gave in at last, for I was her dear John, you know; and I'm blest if I could not make her give me the gown off her back. Fancy! once she cut up a very nice rich black silk scarf, which my sister Waters sent her, and made me a waistcoat and two stocks of it. She was so _very_ soft, the old lady!

* * * * *

I'd lived in this way for five years or more, making myself content with my fifty pounds a year (_perhaps_, I'd saved a little out of it; but that's neither here nor there). From year's end to year's end I remained faithful to my dear mamma, never leaving her except for a month or so in summer, when a bachelor may take a trip to Gravesend or Margate, which would be too expensive for a family. I say a bachelor, for the fact is, I don't know whether I am married or not—never having heard a word since of the scoundrelly Mrs. Stubbs.

I never went to the public house before meals; for, with my beggarly fifty pounds, I could not afford to dine away from home; but there I had my regular seat, and used to come home _pretty glorious_, I can tell you. Then, bed till eleven; then, breakfast and the newspaper; then, a stroll in Hyde Park or Saint James's; then, home at half-past three to dinner, when I jollied, as I call it, for the rest of the day. I was my mother's delight; and thus, with a clear conscience, I managed to live on.

* * * * *

How fond she was of me, to be sure! Being sociable myself, and loving to have my friends about me, we often used to assemble a company of as hearty fellows as you would wish to sit down with, and keep the nights up royally. "Never mind, my boys," I used to say, "send the bottle round: mammy pays for all," as she did, sure enough; and sure enough we punished her cellar too. The good old lady used to wait upon us, as if for all the world she had been my servant, instead of a lady and my mamma. Never used she to repine, though I often, as I must confess, gave her occasion (keeping her up till four o'clock in the morning, because she never could sleep until she saw her "dear Bob" in bed, and leading her a sad anxious life). She was of such a sweet temper, the old lady, that I think in the course of five years I never knew her in a passion, except twice; and then with sister Lizzy, who declared I was ruining the house, and driving the lodgers away, one by one. But mamma would not hear of such envious spite on my sister's part. "Her Bob" was always right, she said. At last Lizzy fairly retreated, and went to the Waterses,—I was glad of it, for her temper was dreadful, and we used to be squabbling from morning till night.

Ah, those _were_ jolly times! but ma was obliged to give up the lodging-house at last—for, somehow, things went wrong after my sister's departure—the nasty uncharitable people said, on account of _me_; because I drove away the lodgers by smoking and drinking, and kicking up noises in the house; and because mamma gave me so much of her money:—so she did, but if she _would_ give it, you know, how could I help it? Heigho! I wish I'd _kept_ it.

No such luck.—The business I thought was to last for ever; but at the end of two years a smash came—shut up shop—sell off everything. Mamma went to the Waterses: and, will you believe it, the ungrateful wretches would not receive me! that Mary, you see, was _so_ disappointed at not marrying me. Twenty pounds a year they allow, it is true; but what's that for a gentleman? For twenty years I have been struggling manfully to gain an honest livelihood, and, in the course of them, have seen a deal of life, to be sure. I've sold segars and pocket-hand-kerchiefs at the corners of streets; I've been a billiard-marker; I've been Director (in the panic year) of the Imperial British Consolidated Mangle and Drying Ground Company. I've been on the stage (for two years as an actor, and about a month as a cad, when I was very low); I've been the means of giving to the police of this empire some very valuable information (about licensed victuallers, gentlemen's carts, and pawnbrokers' names); I've been very nearly an officer again—that is, an assistant to an officer of the Sheriff of Middlesex: it was my last place.

On the last day of the year 1837, even _that_ game was up. It's a thing that has very seldom happened to a gentleman, to be kicked out of a sponging-house; but such was my case. Young Nabbs (who succeeded his father) drove me ignominiously from his door, because I had charged a gentleman in the coffee-rooms seven-and-sixpence for a glass of ale and bread and cheese, the charge of the house being only six shillings. He had the meanness to deduct the eighteen-pence from my wages, and, because I blustered a bit, he took me by the shoulders and turned me out—me, a gentleman, and, what is more, a poor orphan!

How I did rage and swear at him when I got out in the street!—There stood he, the hideous Jew monster, at the double door, writhing under the effect of my language. I had my revenge! Heads were thrust out of every bar of his windows, laughing at him. A crowd gathered round me, as I stood pounding him with my satire, and they evidently enjoyed his discomfiture. I think the mob would have pelted the ruffian to death (one or two of their missiles hit _me_, I can tell you), when a policeman came up, and, in reply to a gentleman, who was asking what was the disturbance, said, "Bless you, Sir, it's Lord Cornwallis." "Move on, _Boots_," said the fellow to me, for, the fact is, my misfortunes and early life are pretty well known—and so the crowd dispersed.

"What could have made that policeman call you Lord Cornwallis and Boots?" said the gentleman, who seemed mightily amused, and had followed me. "Sir," says I, "I am an unfortunate officer of the North Bungay Fencibles, and I'll tell you willingly for a pint of beer." He told me to follow him to his chambers at the Temple, which I did (a five pair back), and there, sure enough, I had the beer; and told him this very story you've been reading. You see he is what is called a literary man— and sold my adventures for me to the booksellers: he's a strange chap; and says they're _moral_.

* * * * *

I'm blest if I can see anything moral in them. I'm sure I ought to have been more lucky through life, being so very wide awake. And yet here I am, without a place, or even a friend, starving upon a beggarly twenty pounds a year—not a single sixpence more, upon _my honour_.

ASCOT CUP DAY.
FROM THE RACING CALENDAR.

"Well, I never!—this the Great Western Railway: the Paddington Station? What a beautiful place:—ugh! ugh! ugh!—and that's the engine: did I ever!—What a funny noise it makes; and what elegant carriages—all plate-glass and silk-lace!" Thus rattled a lively little matron, as fine as a milliner's pattern-doll, to her dapper lord and master, as they seated themselves _vis-à-vis_, in the nine-o'clock down train, first-class, on the morning of the last anniversary of Ascot Cup Day. Anon they were darting onwards for their destination, and again the dame's loquacities were at high pressure. "It is charming, and that's all about it: for all the world like travelling by balloon; and as free from dust and dirt as if one was borne through the air. Why, we shall get down, I _do_ declare, as clean as new pins." "No danger of being soiled on _this_ line, marm," remarked a stout personage in nankeen leggings, a wig, and a _very_ red face, "'cause why, we escape _Staines_ and avoid _Slough_, you know: ha! ha!"

At the end of five-and-forty minutes, bump, bump, bump, and a hissing, as of a universe of boa-constrictors, were succeeded by the interrogatory, from officials in green and much brass, of—"Now Windsor?" and all the crew bound for the races descended _of course_. Then rose the clamour of 'bus cads and go-cart touters—

"Billingsgate eloquence, and, as I guess,
The logic of the 'os coccygis;'"

when, after a scuffle, and some energetic demonstrations, our little dame and second-self found themselves once more in company with the gentleman in the leggings and red face. The trio were seated in a lateral inconvenience on enormous wheels, the charioteer, with his behind before them, urging to utmost speed a gaunt but sinewy bit of blood, who flew onwards as if a herd of hungry wolves were at his haunches. Our travellers were soon on the best of terms: good fellowship generally results when people are thus _thrown together_. Windsor was quickly reached, and as they turned the corner beyond the White Hart, which leads to Ascot, an equipage at the door of the hostelry attracted, by its splendour, the go-carter's attention. "That's L——'s carriage," said the married male; "he that cut such a dash last season; gave balls to one half of London;"—"and _rifled_ the other," rejoined the man with the rosy countenance: it was manifest that he was a wag. "A correct list of all the wonderful high-bred horses, and how they will come in for every heat during the day." "The modern Hercules, ladies and gentlemen; _the_ modern Hercules: he will take and tie that ere donkey to this here ladder, and balance the _as_tonishing _con_junction on the tip of his nose. Waiting for a ha'penny, ladies and gentlemen; make it another brown, and—up—he—goes." Such is the chorus of the Olympic song, chanted what time Ascot celebrates her right-royal revels; but we tarry not for the ladder, or _the staves_.

Through streets of _canvas_ caravanseras, all _soliciting_ their custom, our _tria juncta_ reach _the ropes_ as the word runs along _the lines_, "The Queen is coming!" "Let me see her," ejaculated the lady voyager: "bless her heart! it was for that I came here; and is that Her Majesty? She is a darling, that's what she is! so amiable, so kind-looking, and so little to be a queen!" "And who is that in green, with the costly golden couples over his shoulders?" "Oh, that's the master of the _dear_ hounds." "And all those lovely, smiling ladies?" "More of the _sweet_." "Clear _the course_, clear _the course_!" and straightway there is a movement of gold, precious stones, silk, and paradise plumes, enough to astonish the Genii of the Wonderful Lamp.

"Here they come!" Grey Momus, and Epirus, and Caravan, with "little Pavis, the _rara avis_." "Another round for it. Well done, grey; hurrah! dismal jacket." "Who's the favourite?" "The _belles_ are all for _Bowes_; I'm for Suffield, he's such a good fellow." "I'm for Lord George, _he's a better_." "Hurrah! splendid race." "Oh! you villain, you've stolen my watch; but I've got you, and I'll give it you." "That ere's never no prigging. Didn't I hear you promise to give it him?" "Get away, do—you'll break the springs: you're not to climb up my steps for a stare." The Royal Stand is now vacated, and the cause reaches our little inquisitive friend. "Her Majesty has retired to luncheon." "Law, is she, indeed! how I _should_ like to see her eat: I'm dying to know what sort of meals they provide for her." "All the delicacies in season," explained the wit, with a sinister smile, "and _Lamb_ the whole year round." The matchless cavalcade has passed in all its gorgeous simplicity, bearing the cynosure of all eyes, where waves the banner of St. George a welcome to

"The fair-haired daughter of the Isles,
The hope of many nations."

This, and a rain, descending _à l'Anglaise_, gave notice to quit to all save those who, by the grace of Mackintosh and neat brandy, had set the elements at defiance. "Let us return to our conveyance," said the lively little matron, "and make our way back to the station of the Great Western Railway; my parasol is wet through already." "Here is the spot where we left it," ejaculated her spruce and dapper lord and master, "and no trace of it can I discover: what is to be done now? And the rascal was paid beforehand for stopping." "You could hardly have expected he _would_ stay, however," remarked the stout personage in the nankeen leggings, the wig, and the very red face, proving thereby that he was not only a wit but a philosopher; "you could hardly, in reason, expect the vehicle to stop so long. You should remember it was a _Go_-cart."

EXTRACTS FROM THE ANNUAL REGISTER.

JANUARY 15.—A tradesman at the West End was thrown into convulsions, by the surprise of receiving payment of a Christmas bill!

FEBRUARY 9.—An elderly "Signer of Fives," who has, for thirty years past, walked from Walworth to the Bank, without picking up one new idea by the way, hearing that a deputation of paper-makers had applied to Mr. Murphy for a little more rain to make their wheels go round, exclaimed, "Don't tell me, they never can need it; have I not wanted my umbrella every morning for above a week?"

MARCH 15.—The City Forensic Club applied to the Court of Aldermen for a contribution; the grant was opposed by one of the Court, on the ground that they could have nothing to spare for any Foreign-sick Society while there was so much illness at home.

The same gentleman thought it his duty to inform the Court, that there was a report on 'Change of an alarming rise in Sperma-City. He said he had been taken from school so long ago, that he had forgotten its locality, and requested the Remembrancer to remind him. That learned gentleman, after referring to a map, said he could not exactly find the place, but he believed it was somewhere in Wales.

APRIL 1.—At the annual meeting of the Humane Society, medals were offered for the quickest method of putting disappointed authors out of their misery—for the means of supplying aldermen, at city feasts, with hot dinners, and—for the best plan for relieving the baronets from the agonies they are suffering, on account of their neglected claims.

MAY 15.—_Legacy extraordinary._—A poor old woman, living at Clapham, a few weeks ago, was given over by the doctor. Her only anxiety was for her grandson, a scapegrace lad whom she had brought up, and of whom she was the only relative. He had been placed under the care of a neighbouring waggoner, and the man was sent for. "Thomas," said the old woman, "I feel that I'm not long here, and I fear for Dick when I'm gone. He's a wild lad, and I've nothing to leave him, but I hope you'll look after him,"—the man nodded assent,—"and try to make a good lad of him,"—nod—"and do your duty by him,"—nod again,—"and now and then _do give him a cut or two_!" The authorities at Somerset House have not yet been troubled to fix the duty payable on this bequest.

JUNE 15.—The following advertisement having appeared in the daily papers, "FOUND—The wig and gown of a barrister _unknown_," the place of reference was next day blocked up with applicants answering the description.

JULY 21.—Lord Durham, in the midst of the cares of his government, has not been unmindful of the promotion of science. Among other of his original projects was one for exporting Canada geese, and domesticating them in the Bermudas. It was discovered, however, that the attempt was not likely to succeed, since his Lordship, though he might send them, could not make them stay there.

AUGUST 9.—The recent default in Clerkenwell parish has been the cause of the following notice on the Church doors:—"The inhabitants are requested to remember when their taxes were collected, or they will be recollected."

OCTOBER 1.—The Greenwich Pensioners who have lost their legs, this day presented a petition to the Commissioners of Woods and Forests praying to be re-membered.

NOVEMBER 15.—The Linendrapers' Shopmen held a public meeting to agitate for earlier hours. Some of the masters, who attended, manifested a very unaccommodating spirit, and seemed inclined to subject their complaint to that dangerous system of treatment, _counter-irritation_.

DECEMBER 7.—Lord Durham safely arrived at his house in Cleveland Row this day. We can vouch for the accuracy of the following particulars. His Lordship, as he alighted, was observed to look up and down the street, in an impressive manner, and nodded his head significantly to the porter who stood to receive him—there seemed to be something in it. His Lordship passed rapidly through the hall, upstairs, and shortly after his dressing-room bell was heard to ring. Our reporter, who was stationed at the window of the opposite house, was not able to ascertain who answered it, but he observed servants pass out in various directions, and one of them, by his anxious looks, seemed to manifest peculiar solicitude. Soon afterwards, a butcher's boy presented himself at the area, with a tray containing three mutton chops; he received some communication from within, and disappeared rapidly, but shortly returned, bearing a leg of mutton. No movement of importance being observed for the next seven minutes, our reporter withdrew to the nearest public-house for refreshment, and had scarcely taken his seat, when a servant, in his Lordship's livery, entered, and whispered to the man at the bar. The words were not heard, but the pot-boy was observed to leave the house in great haste, having in his tray three pints of half-and-half. It was rumoured in the private public room, where our reporter was making his notes, that his Lordship's return was not attributable to political causes solely, but to the dread of a Canadian winter; for that, though he was amply furnished with warm feather beds, he had been disappointed in receiving a supply of _bolsters_ from home.— [_Intended for a Morning Paper._]

The principal novel publishers at the West End announce that, in the course of the ensuing season, they will publish a great many fictions on reduced terms. These will all be derived from the most authentic sources of information, arrangements having been made with several retired lady's-maids for original communications, and the contents of all slop-pails, sent under cover, will be considered confidential, and used with discretion. Gentlemen's gentlemen, who have dismissed their masters, and are of a literary turn, will meet with every encouragement.

The Marquis of Waterford is preparing for publication a new edition of Wild Sports of the West, with original illustrations.

Early in the new year will be published,

No. I. of

A FAMILY PERIODICAL.

_To be continued regularly._

A PRESENTATION COPY.
]

Though Malthus indite it, and Martineau write it,
I don't think they've quite hit the nail on the head;
And spite of their pother 'bout father and mother,
We may be one or t'other before we are dead.

THE
COMIC ALMANACK
FOR 1840.

JANUARY. [1840.

JOLLY DOGS.—ABOLITION OF THE TRUCK SYSTEM.

[Sidenote:
WEATHER
——
Nipping frosts
and
driving snows,

thick-soled shoes
and
double-hose.
]

Well, blow me—here's a pretty go!
They'll only stop at ruination,
And bringing all our trade to woe,
For labouring in our just wocation.

Why this ere act's the cruel'st deed
That ever was devised to floor us;
Such as our ancasters ne'er seed,
Nor yet posterity afore us.

Its clean agen the nat'ral law
O' brute beasts, and of humane kind,
For surely dogs was made to draw,
And trucks was made to go behind.

And we was made to sit a-top,
And cut away in all our glory,
And if the lazy varmint stop,
To tell 'em jist another story.

But, dash my wigs—this pretty set,
With hearts as hard as any stone,
Wont let an honest feller whet
His lawful wengeance on his _own_.

No longer now up Highgate road
O' Sunday arternoons I gallop,
With all the brats, a tidy load,
And perhaps a neighbour's child to fill up.

At Farringdon and Common Garden,
I'm fairly laid upon the shelf;
My only chance to earn a farden,
Is truckling to the truck myself.

But we'll resist this horrid plot,
And for our order boldly strive,
For this I know, that ours are not
The only ill-used dogs alive.

Let's not be down upon our luck,
Nor out of heart at our condition,
And since our dogs can't draw a truck,
At least we'll draw up a petition;

And lay our case before the Commons,
What keeps the money of the nation:
Perchance we'll get, like other rum 'uns,
An equitable compensation.

ORDERED to be considered _below_.

JANUARY:—The Announcement
]

BARBER COX, AND THE CUTTING OF HIS COMB.
JANUARY.—THE ANNOUNCEMENT.

On the 1st of January, 1838, I was the master of a lovely shop in the neighbourhood of Oxford market; of a wife, Mrs. Cox; of a business, both in the shaving and cutting line, established three-and-thirty years; of a girl and boy respectively of the ages of eighteen and thirteen; of a three-windowed front, both to my first and second pair; of a young foreman, my present partner, Mr. Orlando Crump; and of that celebrated mixture for the human hair, invented by my late uncle, and called Cox's Bohemian Balsam of Tokay, sold in pots at two-and-three, and three-and-nine; the balsam, the lodgings, and the old-established cutting and shaving business, brought me in a pretty genteel income. I had had my girl, Jemimarann, at Hackney, to school; my dear boy, Tuggeridge, plaited hair already beautifully; my wife at the counter (behind the tray of patent soaps, &c.) cut as handsome a figure as possible; and it was my hope that Orlando and my girl, who were mighty soft upon one another, would, one day, be joined together in Hyming: and, conjointly with my son Tug, carry on the business of hairdressers, when their father was either dead or a gentleman; for a gentleman me and Mrs. C. determined I should be.

Jemima was, you see, a lady herself, and of very high connexions: though her own family had met with crosses, and was rather low. Mr. Tuggeridge, her father, kept the famous tripe-shop, near the Pigtail and Sparrow, in the Whitechapel Road, from which place I married her; being myself very fond of the article, and especially when she served it to me—the dear thing!

Jemima's father was not successful in business: and I married her, I am proud to confess it, without a shilling. I had my hands, my house, and my Bohemian balsam to support her!—and we had hopes from her uncle, a mighty rich East India merchant, who, having left this country sixty years ago, had arrived to be the head of a great house in India, and was worth millions, we were told.

Three years after Jemimarann's birth (and two after the death of my lamented father-in-law), Tuggeridge (head of the great house of Budgurow and Co.), retired from the management of it; handed over his shares to his son, Mr. John Tuggeridge, and came to live in England, at Portland Place and Tuggeridgeville, Surrey, and enjoy himself. Soon after, my wife took her daughter in her hand and went, as in duty bound, to visit her uncle; but whether it was that he was proud and surly, or she somewhat sharp in her way (the dear girl fears nobody, let me have you to know), a desperate quarrel took place between them; and from that day to the day of his death he never set eyes on her. All that he would condescend to do was to take a few dozen of lavender water from us in the course of the year, and to send his servants to be cut and shaved by us. All the neighbours laughed at this poor ending of our expectations, for Jemmy had bragged not a little; however, we did not care, for the connexion was always a good one, and we served Mr. Hock, the valet; Mr. Bar, the coachman; and Mrs. Breadbasket, the housekeeper, willingly enough. I used to powder the footman, too, on great days, but never in my life saw old Tuggeridge, except once; when he said, "O, the barber!" tossed up his nose, and passed on.

One day—one famous day last January—all our market was thrown into a high state of excitement by the appearance of no less than three vehicles at our establishment. As me, Jemmy, my daughter, Tug, and Orlando, were sitting in the back parlour over our dinner (it being Christmas time, Mr. Crump had treated the ladies to a bottle of port, and was longing that there should be a mistletoe bough; at which proposal my little Jemimarann looked as red as a glass of negus):—we had just, I say, finished the port, when, all of a sudden, Tug bellows out, "Law, pa, here's uncle Tuggeridge's housekeeper in a cab!"

And Mrs. Breadbasket it was, sure enough—Mrs. Breadbasket in deep mourning, who made her way, bowing and looking very sad, into the back shop. My wife, who respected Mrs. B. more than anything else in the world, set her a chair, offered her a glass of wine, and vowed it was very kind of her to come. "Law, mem," says Mrs. B., "I'm sure I'd do anything to serve your family, for the sake of that poor dear Tuck-Tuck-tug-guggeridge, that's gone."

"That's what?" cries my wife.

"What, gone?" cried Jemimarann, bursting out crying (as little girls will about anything or nothing); and Orlando looking very rueful, and ready to cry too.

"Yes, gaw——" Just as she was at this very "gaw," Tug roars out, "Law pa! here's Mr. Bar, uncle Tug's coachman!"

It was Mr. Bar: when she saw him Mrs. Breadbasket stepped suddenly back into the parlour with my ladies. "What is it, Mr. Bar?" says I; and, as quick as thought, I had the towel under his chin, Mr. Bar in the chair, and the whole of his face in a beautiful foam of lather: Mr. Bar made some resistance. "Don't think of it, Mr. Cox," says he; "don't trouble yourself, sir;" but I lathered away and never minded. "And what's this melancholy event, sir," says I, "that has spread desolation in your family's bosoms? I can feel for your loss, sir—I can feel for your loss."

I said so out of politeness, because I served the family, not because Tuggeridge was my uncle—no, as such I disown him.

Mr. Bar was just about to speak. "Yes, sir," says he, "my master's gaw—— " When at the "gaw" in walks Mr. Hock, the own man!—the finest gentleman I ever saw.

"What, _you_ here, Mr. Bar?" says he.

"Yes, I am, sir; and haven't I a right, sir?"

"A mighty wet day, sir," says I to Mr. Hock, stepping up and making my bow. "A sad circumstance too, sir—and is it a turn of the tongs that you want to-day, sir? Ho, there! Mr. Crump!"

"Turn, Mr. Crump, if you please, sir," said Mr. Hock, making a bow; "but from you, sir, never, no never, split me!—and I wonder how some fellows can have the _insolence_ to allow their MASTERS to shave them!" With this Mr. Hock flung himself down to be curled: Mr. Bar suddenly opened his mouth in order to reply; but, seeing there was a tiff between the gentlemen, and wanting to prevent a quarrel, I rammed the "Advertiser" into Mr. Hock's hands, and just popped my shaving brush into Mr. Bar's mouth—a capital way to stop angry answers.

Mr. Bar had hardly been in the chair a second, when whirr comes a hackney-coach to the door, from which springs a gentleman in a black coat with a bag.

"What, you here?" says the gentleman. I could not help smiling, for it seemed that everybody was to begin by saying, "What, _you_ here?" "Your name is Cox, sir," says he; smiling, too, as the very pattern of mine. "My name, sir, is Sharpus—Blunt, Hone, and Sharpus, Middle Temple-lane,— and I am proud to salute you, sir; happy,—that is to say, sorry to say, that Mr. Tuggeridge, of Portland Place, is dead, and your lady is heiress, in consequence, to one of the handsomest properties in the kingdom."

At this I started, and might have sunk to the ground, but for my hold of Mr. Bar's nose; Orlando seemed putrified to stone, with his irons fixed to Mr. Hock's head; our respective patients gave a wince out:—Mrs. C., Jemimarann, and Tug, rushed from the back shop, and we formed that splendid tableau which the great Cruikshank has here depicted!

"And Mr. John Tuggeridge, sir?" says I.

"Why—hee, hee, hee!" says Mr. Sharpus; "surely you know that he was only the—hee, hee, hee!—the natural son!"

You now can understand why the servants from Portland Place had been so eager to come to us: one of the housemaids heard Mr. Sharpus say there was no will, and that my wife was heir to the property, and not Mr. John Tuggeridge: this she told in the housekeeper's room; and off, as soon as they heard it, the whole party set, in order to be the first to bear the news.

We kept them, every one, in their old places; for, though my wife would have sent them about their business, my dear Jemimarann just hinted, "Mamma, you know _they_ have been used to great houses, and we have not; had we not better keep them for a little?"—Keep them then, we did, to show us how to be gentlefolks.

I handed over the business to Mr. Crump without a single farthing of premium, though Jemmy would have made me take four hundred pounds for it; but this I was above: Crump had served me faithfully, and have the shop he should.

FEBRUARY.—First Rout
]

FEBRUARY. [1840.

A PENNY POST-OBIT.

MY DEAR FRIEND,—I write you this letter to explain to you why you have next to nothing to pay for it. The Government has settled the business; and the Chancellor of the Exchequer has resolved to set his revenue _a going by the Post_. We are to pay a penny for a letter, which is expected to have upon it the stamp of the Post Office, and of public approbation at the same time. I hardly think it will. Some of the community are looking dull about it already. There is a _pence_-ive air about the two—I beg pardon, the—one penny postmen, which strikes every one. They intimate that it is gammon to load a man with an additional hundredweight of paper, and to call _that_ a _reduction of public duty_. It clearly affects people of that _stamp_; and the public surmise it may even touch the Newspapers. In short, they say that the _Times_ will be quite altered by the _Post_. Ladies generally seem to like the idea, but there is a visible depression in the _mails_. Many a _coachman_ has been thrown off his _guard_, and surprised into a most determined alteration of _carriage_. The Government will be a political mid-wife, engaged in an everlasting delivery. London is already afflicted with a metropolitan rheumatism, produced by the introduction of fresh draughts into passages, the carpenters having cut holes in all the street-doors. Sanguine people, however, retain their knockers, in the hope of getting the reward offered for the discovery of _perpetual motion_! They say there is to be an issue of more than a million of letters a day; but men are a little at issue about this. There must be some truth in it, however, as two thousand counters have been engaged,—one thousand to _count_ them, and the other to _count them upon_. Sorters of all sorts are employed. At the Post Offices, at all hours, the _pigeon_ holes will be surrounded by _carriers_. The poor fellows will be like muskets, perpetually _going off_. Rowland Hill has invented this scheme; but the postmen do not complain of him so much as of the other _hills_ they must trudge over with their great bags of letters. The only district there is any contention for is _Bag shot_ heath, once famous for highwaymen; they say, however, that we are _all_ highwaymen now, and do nothing but make them "_stand and deliver_" from morning till night. Some mercantile quarrels have sprung out of the new regulation. For instance, there is a good deal of _milling_ among the paper-makers. The march of paper will be prodigious—the French say we shall have none left, that it will be all _papier marché_! Men, women, and children are to write—right or wrong. Enjoinments to this duty—now the other duty is off—press from all quarters. "Be sure you send me plenty of _notes_," says the son, departing for College. "Write to me often, _Billy, do_," asks the affectionate mother of her school-going child. Love-letters, containing mutual _pledges_, will be _popped_ into the post by thousands; and hearts gone passed _redemption_ will be slipped recklessly through a hole in the door. It is uncertain whether orators will not cease _spouting_, and singers write the notes which they formerly would have _uttered_. Ironmongers are looking up—and _forgery_ is going on famously—in consequence of the great demand for steam _steal_ pens. Manifold-writers are quite exhausted. I confess, I do not like the system myself—as it's Hill's, it has its ills; any good in it will appear on an examination—

POST MORTEM.

FEBRUARY.—FIRST ROUT.

We were speedily installed in our fine house: but what's a house without friends? Jemmy made me _cut_ all my old acquaintances in the market, and I was a solitary being, when, luckily, an old acquaintance of ours, Captain Tagrag, was so kind as to promise to introduce us into distinguished society. Tagrag was the son of a baronet, and had done us the honour of lodging with us for two years; when we lost sight of him, and of his little account, too, by the way. A fortnight after, hearing of our good fortune, he was among us again, however; and Jemmy was not a little glad to see him, knowing him to be a baronet's son, and very fond of our Jemimarann; indeed, Orlando (who is as brave as a lion) had, on one occasion, absolutely beaten Mr. Tagrag for being rude to the poor girl; a clear proof, as Tagrag said afterwards, that he was always fond of her.

Mr. Crump, poor fellow, was not very much pleased by our good fortune, though he did all he could to try, at first; and I told him to come and take his dinner regular, as if nothing had happened. But to this Jemima very soon put a stop, for she came very justly to know her stature, and to look down on Crump, which she bid her daughter to do; and, after a great scene, in which Orlando showed himself very rude and angry, he was forbidden the house—for ever!

So much for poor Crump. The Captain was now all in all with us. "You see, sir," our Jemmy would say, "we shall have our town and country mansion, and a hundred and thirty thousand pounds in the funds to leave between our two children; and, with such prospects, they ought surely to have the first society of England." To this Tagrag agreed, and promised to bring us acquainted with the very pink of the fashion; ay, and what's more, did.

First, he made my wife get an opera-box, and give suppers on Tuesdays and Saturdays. As for me, he made me ride in the park; me and Jemimarann, with two grooms behind us, who used to laugh all the way, and whose very beards I had shaved. As for little Tug, he was sent straight off to the most fashionable school in the kingdom, the Rev. Doctor Pigney's, at Richmond.

Well, the horses, the suppers, the opera-box, the paragraphs in the papers about Mr. Coxe Coxe (that's the way, double your name, and stick an 'e' to the end of it, and you are a gentleman at once), had an effect in a wonderfully short space of time, and we began to get a very pretty society about us. Some of old Tug's friends swore they would do anything for the family, and brought their wives and daughters to see dear Mrs. Cox and her charming girl; and when, about the first week in February, we announced a grand dinner and ball, for the evening of the twenty-eighth, I assure you there was no want of company; no, nor of titles neither; and it always does my heart good even to hear one mentioned.

Let me see, there was, first, my Lord Dunbooze, an Irish peer, and his seven sons, the Honourable Messieurs Trumper (two only to dinner); there was Count Mace, the celebrated French nobleman, and his Excellency Baron Von Punter, from Baden; there was Lady Blanch Bluenose, the eminent literati, author of "The Distrusted," "The Distorted," "The Disgusted," "The Disreputable One," and other poems; there was the Dowager Lady Max, and her daughter, the Honourable Miss Adelaide Blueruin; Sir Charles Codshead, from the City; and Field-Marshal Sir Gorman O'Gallagher, K.A., K.B., K.C., K.W., K.X., in the service of the republic of Guatemala: my friend Tagrag, and his fashionable acquaintance, little Tom Tufthunt, made up the party; and when the doors were flung open, and Mr. Hock, in black, with a white napkin, three footmen, coachman, and a lad, whom Mrs. C. had dressed in sugar-loaf buttons, and called a page, were seen round the dinner-table, all in white gloves, I promise you I felt a thrill of elation, and thought to myself—Sam Cox, Sam Cox, who ever would have expected to see you here?

After dinner, there was to be, as I said, an evening party; and to this Messieurs Tagrag and Tufthunt had invited many of the principal nobility that our metropolis has produced. When I mention, among the company to tea, her Grace the Duchess of Zero, her son the Marquis of Fitzurse, and the Ladies North Pole, her daughters; when I say that there were yet _others_, whose names may be found in the Blue Book, but shan't, out of modesty, be mentioned here, I think I've said enough to show that, in our time, No. 96, Portland Place, was the resort of the best company.

It was our first dinner, and dressed by our new cook, Munseer Cordongblew. I bore it very well, eating, for my share, a filly dysol allamater dotell, a cutlet soubeast, a pully bashymall, and other French dishes: and, for the frisky sweet wine, with tin tops to the bottles, called Champang, I must say that me and Mrs. Coxe-Tuggeridge-Coxe drank a very good share of it (but the Claret and Jonnysberger, being sour, we did not much relish); however, the feed, as I say, went off very well, Lady Blanch Bluenose sitting next to me, and being so good as to put me down for six copies of all her poems; the Count and Baron Von Punter engaging Jemimarann for several waltzes, and the Field-Marshal plying my dear Jemmy with Champang until, bless her! her dear nose became as red as her new crimson satin gown, which, with a blue turban and Bird-of-Paradise feathers, made her look like an Empress, I warrant.

Well, dinner past, Mrs. C. and the ladies went off:—thunder-under-under came the knocks at the door; squeedle-eedle-eedle, Mr. Wippert's fiddlers began to strike up; and, about half-past eleven, me and the gents thought it high time to make our appearance. I felt a _little_ squeamish at the thought of meeting a couple of hundred great people; but Count Mace, and Sir Gorman O'Gallagher taking each an arm, we reached, at last, the drawing-room.

The young ones in company were dancing, and the Duchess and the great ladies were all seated, talking to themselves very stately, and working away at the ices and macaroons. I looked out for my pretty Jemimarann amongst the dancers, and saw her tearing round the room along with Baron Punter, in what they call a gallypard; then I peeped into the circle of the Duchesses, where, in course, I expected to find Mrs. C.; but she wasn't there! She was seated at the farther end of the room, looking very sulky; and I went up, and took her arm, and brought her down to the place where the Duchesses were. "O, not there!" said Jemmy, trying to break away. "Nonsense, my dear," says I, "you are Missis, and this is your place:"—then, going up to her Ladyship the Duchess, says I, "Me and my Missis are most proud of the honour of seeing of you."

The Duchess (a tall red-haired grenadier of a woman) did not speak.

I went on. "The young ones are all at it, ma'am, you see: and so we thought we would come and sit down among the old ones. You and I, ma'am, I think, are too stiff to dance."

"Sir?" says her Grace.

"Ma'am," says I, "don't you know me? my name's Cox—nobody's introduced me; but, dash it, it's my own house, and I may present myself—so give us your hand, ma'am."

And I shook hers in the kindest way in the world: but, would you believe it? the old cat screamed as if my hand had been a hot 'tater. "Fitzurse! Fitzurse!" shouted she; "help! help!" Up scuffled all the other Dowagers—in rushed the dancers. "Mamma! mamma!" squeaked Lady Julia North Pole. "Lead me to my mother," howled Lady Aurorer; and both came up and flung themselves into her arms. "Wawt's the raw?" said Lord Fitzurse, sauntering up quite stately.

"Protect me from the insults of this man," says her Grace. "Where's Tufthunt? he promised that not a soul in this house should speak to me."

"My dear Duchess," said Tufthunt, very meek.

"Don't Duchess _me_, sir. Did you not promise they should not speak; and hasn't that horrid tipsy wretch offered to embrace me? Didn't his monstrous wife sicken me with her odious familiarities? Call my people, Tufthunt! Follow me, my children!"

"And my carriage; and mine, and mine!" shouted twenty more voices; and down they all trooped to the hall: Lady Blanch Bluenose, and Lady Max among the very first; leaving only the Field-Marshal, and one or two men, who roared with laughter ready to split.

"O, Sam," said my wife, sobbing, "why would you take me back to them? they had sent me away before! I only asked the Duchess whether she didn't like rum-shrub better than all your Maxarinos and Curasosos: and, would you believe it? all the company burst out laughing; and the Duchess told me just to keep off, and not speak till I was spoken to. Imperence! I'd like to tear her eyes out."

And so I lo believe my dearest Jemmy would!

TOM THE DEVIL.
A FRAGMENT OF THE BIOGRAPHY OF 1839.

"I do declare, upon an affidavit,
Romance I've never read like that I've seen:
Nor, if unto the world I ever gave it,
Would some believe that such a tale had been!"—_Byron._

It was a little past the noon of a lovely day in the last Autumn, that, as I rode towards the Doncaster race-course, to enjoy an hour of its rural revelries, before the serious business of the Leger commenced, I found myself hailed by a voice, and an arm of a red silk _robe de chambre_, from a drawing-room window of the "Salutation." Now, when we set out in prepense search of adventure, it don't require the song of the Syrens to induce us to luff up to a hail. Turning under the gateway, therefore, I dismounted, and taking my way upstairs, made the apartment for which I was bound, with but little difficulty. The chamber was, certainly, not the worst specimen I had ever seen of the unfortunate world whereof it formed an item. The appointments combined no ordinary degree of comfort and elegance, while a table, placed at one of the windows, was stocked after a manner that would have done honour to the corporation of Bristol. Among various _plats_, consisting of cold partridges, French patés, devil'd grouse, and varieties of choice fruit, arose the graceful forms of tapering flasks, eloquent of many a rare and precious vintage. The lord or all, arrayed in a robe of scarlet silk, lined with purple of a like material, lay, dishevelled, in Sybarite indulgence, upon a sofa adjoining this teeming board. "_Couchant_," I knew him not; but as he rose to receive me, there, in that silk attire, stood confessed the worthy, a fragment of whose biography I am now in the act of perpetuating—the veritable hero of these presents, even Tom the Devil himself. As my acquaintance with him at the time (and indeed in all subsequent experience) was of a very desultory character, this introduction of him to the reader must be of a similar nature. Ireland was the land of his birth; but the particulars of his parentage were less definitely ascertained. I was assured he had _an uncle_ (from an episode in his life that it is not convenient here to enter upon), and, indeed, he himself admitted that he was in the habit of frequent intercourse with a person distinguished by that appellation. However, for our present purpose, it is enough that he was an eccentric, endowed with little of the tedious coherence of the merely common-place. When we laugh at the samples of his compatriots, put before us by the playwright and the actor, we regard them as pleasant burlesques, cleverly, though unnaturally, got up. Reader! if haply thou hast had no personal experience of Erin as it is, permit me to offer thee this characteristic fragment.