Chapter IX (12)

Poor Orlando Crump came to see us every day; and we, who had never taken the slightest notice of him, in Portland Place, and treated him so cruelly that day, at Beulah Spa, were only too glad of his company now. He used to bring books for my girl, and a bottle of sherry for me; and he used to take home Jemmy's fronts, and dress them for her; and when locking-up time came, he used to see the ladies home to their little three-pair bed-room, in Holborn, where they slept now, Tug and all. "Can the bird forget its nest?" Orlando used to say (he was a romantic young fellow, that's the truth, and blew the flute, and read Lord Byron, incessantly, since he was separated from Jemimarann); "Can the bird, let loose in eastern climes, forget its home? Can the rose cease to remember its beloved bulbul?—Ah! no. Mr. Cox, you made me what I am, and what I hope to die—a hairdresser. I never see a curling-irons before I entered your shop, or knew Naples from brown Windsor. Did you not make over your house, your furniture, your emporium of perfumery, and nine-and-twenty shaving customers, to me? Are these trifles? Is Jemimarann a trifle? if she will allow me to call her so. O, Jemimarann! your pa found me in the workhouse, and made me what I am. Conduct me to my grave, and I never, never shall be different!" When he had said this, Orlando was so much affected, that he rushed suddenly on his hat, and quitted the room.

Then Jemimarann began to cry too. "O, pa!" said she, "isn't he, isn't he a nice young man?"

"I'm _hanged_ if he ain't," says Tug. "What do you think of his giving me eighteenpence yesterday, and a bottle of lavender water for Mimarann?"

"He might as well offer to give you back the shop, at any rate," says Jemmy.

"What! to pay Tuggeridge's damages? My dear, I'd sooner die than give Tuggeridge the chance."

DECEMBER—Christmas Bustle.
]

1840.] DECEMBER.

FAT CATTLE SHOW.

December should be a cheerful month, weather or no. It should be a warm one too, though never so cold. People blow their fires and use their bellows within, while the wind bellows without. Lawyers are glad over _Coke_. Men _take measures_ to secure the comfort of their bodies, and preserve the coats of their stomachs. Though the Legislature does not sit, the middle classes rejoice in the carrying of _many of their bills_. Pastrycooks begin to _mince matters_; and "eyes" are turned towards "pies." Politicians affect sincerity; and _Peel, tout_ _sweet_, becomes _candid_. _Gross_ acts of plum-puddingizing are effected by means of a _grocer_; and _Plum-tree-street_ is then the sweetest locality in St. Giles's. The Irish daily find fresh _raisins_ for flocking there. With the sale of plums money gets _current_; but the sovereign is just now more valued than ever, and, at the great theatres, _Stirling_ is all the go. The markets grow lively, and Smithfield puts forth its show. Pigs have lots of stuffing, and get so heavy that it is quite common to ask for a _pig of lead_. About oxen and sheep there is a decided _ignis fat-you-us_. Beasts visit beasts, and human fat cattle—to survey the quadrupedal—walk in, _plump_. Butchers display fine _traits_. _Boxing day_ arrives, and with it the _knocks_ of tradesmen, but they only make a _hit_ when they are paid. People are obliged to wait for their own _Nox_ till _night_. Merry drinks and games then stir not the fire, but the fire-side. The _younger_ branches of families are indulged in wine that is _elder_, universal _supperage_ supplies the place of universal suffrage; and the only ballot is for the bean in the cake. Christmas is as brave a fellow on land as ever Admiral _Winter_ was at sea, and should be toasted accordingly. He lights our fires, and leaves few without fuel:—he tows up our colliers to warm our toes; and, though he is too kind to sink the barges, he always _scuttles the coals_! He is no revolutionist, for, whilst warming the _little_, he has a respect for the _grate_. "He is," says the Frenchman, "our defender, by _de_ _fender_; and if he do seem cold, it is only because he is neither a _bore_ nor a _muff_."

Hurrah! for jolly Christmas, boys! his days are coming fast;
When rod is nought but rod'montade, and birch becomes bombast.

DECEMBER.—CHRISTMAS BUSTLE.

Tuggeridge vowed that I should finish my days there, when he put me in prison. It appears that we both had reason to be ashamed of ourselves, and were, thank God! I learned to be sorry for my bad feelings towards him, and he actually wrote to me, to say,—

"Sir,—I think you have suffered enough for faults which, I believe, do not lie with you, so much as your wife; and I have withdrawn my claims which I had against you while you were in wrongful possession of my father's estates. You must remember that when, on examination of my father's papers, no will was found, I yielded up his property, with perfect willingness, to those who I fancied were his legitimate heirs. For this I received all sorts of insults from your wife and yourself (who acquiesced in them); and when the discovery of a will in India proved _my_ just claims you must remember how they were met, and the vexatious proceedings with which you sought to oppose them.

"I have discharged your lawyer's bill; and, as I believe you are more fitted for the trade you formerly exercised than for any other, I will give five hundred pounds for the purchase of a stock and shop when you shall find one to suit you.

"I enclose a draft for twenty pounds, to meet your present expenses. You have, I am told, a son, a boy of some spirit; if he likes to try his fortune abroad, and go on board an Indiaman, I can get him an appointment; and am, Sir, your obedient servant,

JOHN TUGGERIDGE."

It was Mrs. Breadbasket, the housekeeper, who brought this letter, and looked mighty contemptuous as she gave it.

"I hope, Breadbasket, that your master will send me my things, at any rate," cries Jemmy. "There's seventeen silk and satin dresses, and a whole heap of trinkets, that can be of no earthly use to him."

"Don't Breadbasket me, mem, if you please, mem. My master says that them things is quite obnoxious to your spere of life. Breadbasket, indeed!" and so she sailed out.

Jemmy hadn't a word; she had grown mighty quiet since we had been in misfortune: but my daughter looked as happy as a queen; and Tug, when he heard of the ship, gave a jump that nearly knocked down poor Orlando. "Ah, I suppose you'll forget me now," says he, with a sigh; and seemed the only unhappy person in company.

"Why, you conceive, Mr. Crump," says my wife, with a great deal of dignity, "that, connected as we are, a young man born in a work——"

"Woman!" cried I (for once in my life determined to have my own way), "hold your foolish tongue. Your absurd pride has been the ruin of us, hitherto; and, from this day, I'll have no more of it. Hark ye, Orlando, if you will take Jemimarann, you may have her; and if you'll take five hundred pounds for a half share of the shop, they're yours; and _that's_ for you, Mrs. Coxe."

And here we are, back again. And I write this from the old back shop, where we are all waiting to see the new year in. Orlando sits yonder, plaiting a wig for my Lord Chief Justice, as happy as may be; and Jemimarann and her mother have been as busy as you can imagine all day long, and are just now giving the finishing touches to the bridal dresses; for the wedding is to take place the day after to-morrow. I've cut seventeen heads off (as I say) this very day; and as for Jemmy, I no more mind her than I do the Emperor of China and all his Tambarins. Last night we had a merry meeting of our friends and neighbours, to celebrate our re-appearance among them; and very merry we all were. We begun with quadrilles, but I never could do 'em well; and, after that, to please Mr. Crump and his intended, we tried a gallopard, which I found anything but easy: for since I am come back to a life of peace and comfort, it's astonishing how stout I'm getting; so we turned at once to what Jemmy and me excels in—a country dance; which is rather surprising, as we was both brought up to a town life. As for young Tug, he showed off in a sailor's hornpipe; which Mrs. Coxe says is very proper for him to learn, now he is intended for the sea. But stop! here comes in the punchbowls; and if we are not happy, who is? I say I am like the Swish people, for I can't flourish out of my native _hair_.

EXTRACTS FROM THE ANNUAL REGISTER OF
REMARKABLE OCCURRENCES IN 1839.

JAN. 9.—Discovery of the real Vegetable Pills:—A patient hoaxed the vendor, and, instead of taking them, sowed them in his garden. A fine crop of peas was the result. The man had been selling those pleasant vegetables, in boxes, disguised as pills by being covered with an outer coating of flour; but, from having been always _in flower_, they were now thoroughly _blown_!

In the north, a Coroner's inquest was held upon the body of a man who died from taking another kind of Vegetable Pills. On opening the body the interior was discovered to be one huge cabbage, of great dimensions, but dead, to its heart's core, of confinement and want of water—a beverage which the patient unfortunately never drank. The jury returned a verdict of "_quits_." "Quits, gentlemen!" exclaimed the dismayed Coroner—"never heard of such a thing! What do you mean?" "Why," replied the foreman, with some warmth, "we find that if the cabbage killed the man, the man most certainly killed the cabbage; and if that ain't quits, blow me!"

JAN. 24.—Her Majesty went on to the stage of Drury Lane Theatre, to inspect Van Amburgh and his beasts. The Queen was mistaken by many for the _Lady of Lyons_.

_Cab-rearer._
]

FEB. 18.—Maroto did a bit of important slaughter, and murdered twelve generals, upon the plea of the general welfare. Rather a contradictory reason; but Don Carlos entered France in consequence. They say his chiefs were bribed by a _palmer's stone_, and it is certain there was some palming, any way. The only commander that now sticks to him is Cabrera, and he's not unlikely to be upset.

MARCH 3.—Vestris attempted to be blown up. A _private box_ given her in her own theatre—loaded with combustibles. Drawing cover—and discovery in consequence.

Some spiteful people envying Madame's fame,
Dare to pronounce it an Olympic game!

MAY 21.—Procession of the Temperance Society.

Tea-total army! how you march,
Tag-rag and bob-tail of Bohea:
With sober legs, and visage starch,
Looking like men "_done to a Tea_."

You're not so jolly o'er your fate,
As merry boys that drink and dance;
You're cross—and show (I temper hate!)
Bad temper in your _temperance_.

Besides, I think I let truth slip,
Oh! marching most demure, mobocrasy.
And have you fairly "on the _hip_"
By hinting here at your _hypocrisy_!

For on this mighty celebration,
When all abroad for show you roam,
'Tis said, you'll scandalize your nation,
_And get blind drunk a-going home_!

MAY 23.—Queen Adelaide returned:—

This good Queen comes with health restored
Of which before she was defaulter:
Did she drink stout when on ship-board,
Or was she known to _malt_ at _Malta_?

JUNE 30.—The Sultan of Turkey died of _delirium tremens_; the Father of the Faithful going drunk to the seventh heaven! His son—scion of the same _die-nasty_—ascended the throne; but taught, by example, not to _wine_, hid his grief and drowned his father's cellars in the Bosphorus. Shortly after this his whole fleet _abstained from Port_—and absconded to Mehemet Ali.

JULY 2.—Birmingham riots. A smart fire, but no "_Burns's_ Justice,"— _down-fall_ of much _uphold_-stery. Beds in flames—among the _mattresses_ great destruction of _tick_—credit vanishing. Sacrifice of property not unlike _sacking_. Town in a storm.

JULY 21.—Rage for publishing portraits of the Queen—some in the _Lane_ and some in the line-manner: some done by _Doo_, and some engraved by _Cousins_—not by Cousin George, or Cousin Albert,—not by a Prince man, but a man of Prints. But _muzzy-tinto_ seems the favourite style.

AUG. 30.—The Cinque Ports gave a banquet to the Duke of Wellington, where they did not _sink port_ at all; on the contrary, the feast was carried on with much _wine_, and a great deal of _spirit_; and, although the room was surrounded with _banners_, nothing was found to _flag_. There were plenty of _rations_, and orations, and Lord Brougham's Waterloo Eulogy was a eulogy of the first water.

SEPT. 7.—The Secretary of War dated a letter from Windsor Castle, mistaking it for his _Home Office_. As it was, it was only a blunder, but he might as well have kissed Her Majesty by mistake, and then it would have been a blunder-buss.

SEPT. 12.—Poulett Thomson went to Canada, in the _Pique_ frigate; and many people were much _piqued_ at the circumstance. The ejaculation of "_Shiver my timbers!_" became prevalent, at the same time, with the great wood-dealers of British America.

SEPT. 22.—Pump locked up at Ramsgate, during divine service.

Lock up the pump! no! no! we see
At once the whole report is scandal:
What dullards in that town must be
Who'd stop the music of a _Handel_

SEPT. 28.—The Lord Mayor's chaplain preached his annual sermon before the Corporation; and took for his text, "A citizen of no _mean_ city." The Corporation, however, got offended at the discourse, which induced them to withhold the usual fifty-pound donation. The sermon contained such a _dressing_ that they considered themselves _overdone_; and, refusing to be _rated_ after that fashion, took their own notes, but withheld the fifty. The reverend gentleman is now of opinion that they are citizens of _a very mean city indeed_; and, if he has not a text, he has, at least, a _pre_text for saying so.

A Man of Letters.
]

NOV. 8.—Post-office arrangements proposed. Treasury issues one minute, which it takes twenty to read. Postage, not uniform, but promoted to a groat, to promote the circulation of fourpenny-pieces. The Chancellor of the Exchequer, having looked at the question in its every _Baring_— declines throwing the letters more open—to distribution. Nevertheless, correspondence will be so much increased, that this may be called a _post age_—and Lord Lichfield, A MAN OF LETTERS.

ASSOCIATION OF BRITISH ILLUMINATI, HELD AT
BIRMINGHAM, IN AUGUST, 1839.

[We have been requested to insert the following selections from the
proceedings of the Institution, in consequence of the unhandsome
conduct of some of the newspapers, in refusing to publish any
further reports unless they were paid for as advertisements.]

A great feature, in the meeting this year, has been the elegant and intelligible simplicity of the subjects and papers discussed; the following are a few of the most interesting:—

Mr. Bewdlite's paper "On the retrograde Progression of vegetable Ærolites, supposed to be caused by the flowing Stagnation of diurnal Currents, coming in Contact with a Board of Guardians," was much admired; as well as Dr. Terncow's admirable paper "On the Tendency of extreme Nervous Filaments to form Photogenic Conventions," and "The Advantages derived from forcing condensed Air into the Brain, to sharpen the Powers of Hearing," by which means a whisper at Dover could be distinctly heard at Boulogne.

Under the head of Section W, an interesting report was read by Dr. Buckleband, on some important geological and antiquarian discoveries, which were made, in the neighbourhood of Holborn, by the workmen employed in a lying down gas-pipes. It appeared that, at the depth of six feet below the mud formation, having passed through a _stratum_ of London dirt, teeming with interesting _reliquiæ_ of blacking-bottles and tobacco-pipes, in a fine state of petrifaction, together with traces of decayed vegetable matter, interspersed with bones of feline _mammalia_, they struck upon a mass of regular brickwork, which was, at first, supposed to be the remains of the Roman road which formerly ran from King's Cross to Evans's Hotel, in Covent Garden. On carefully removing the masonry, they arrived at a curiously constructed apartment, or _cella_, containing several dozen bottles, of modern form, reclining in sawdust round the walls. The wine in the bottles was found to be perfectly unimpaired by its long repose, and tasted fresh and sweet. One gentleman pronounced it to be the Massican wine so lauded by Pliny. Another, who had hitherto pretended to be a judge of old wine, stated that it was merely a compound of inferior port (fine rough flavour, 30_s._) and red currant, with a small admixture of English brandy. The learned professor merely mentioned this absurd opinion as a matter of entertainment. One of the most singular features of this gratifying discovery, was one of the everlasting lamps, of which curious light a small jet was burning over the bins, with a flame exactly resembling gas. He expected a further report of their proceedings by the seven o'clock train. While the learned gentleman was speaking, the communication arrived. Much excitement prevailed as he read the paper; and one of the audience, in his nervous agitation, took another's snuff-box by mistake. It appeared that the workmen had descended, in company with several contributors to the "Gentleman's Magazine," and, following a long passage, similarly adorned with bottles, began to contemplate the idea of bringing to light an entire subterranean Roman city; probably destroyed by one of the early volcanic eruptions of the _Mons Primula_, or Primrose Hill, of the ancients. On ascending a flight of steps they came to a small door, which they eagerly forced open, and the astonished group found themselves in the "bottling department" of what had been apparently an early Roman "wine vaults."

Mr. Lyme Stone produced a fine fossil specimen of the claw of some extinct animal, which had been discovered by the excavators of the Southampton Railroad. He had shown it to the learned professor, who had drawn the entire animal from this single specimen; and, on comparing it with the Munkorsensauros, it was found to be correct, with the exception of the tail being curly instead of straight. Mr. Planecence inquired if it was not likely to be the claw of an eagle, in composition similar to those displayed in the New Road, where the two gentlemen, without any clothes, are represented as playing at single-stick. He was strengthened in this idea by observing an iron pin running through the claw, probably to fix it to the pedestal. Mr. Lyme Stone was sorry that the honourable and learned gentleman was such a confounded fool. The pin with which it was transfixed was evidently a weapon of chase, proving the existence of man upon the earth to be coeval with his desire for food.

An angry discussion would doubtless have taken place had not the hour sounded for dinner. The company speedily separated, and proved the superiority of the attraction that ducks and salmon possessed over inorganic incomprehensibles.

BLARNEYHUM ASS-TROLOGICUM PRO ANNO 1840.

COURTEOUS READER,

Hold thy breath lightly, while I outpour to thee, in gentle diction, my prediction of events. Behold the Hieroglyphic Interpreter of the symbols of the present and the future; and what a _posse_ of things—both _in posse_ and _in esse_—it closes and discloses under its mystic mantle. Imagine thyself, for a moment, like the topmost sails of some goodly vessel,—the moon-raker—the star-gazer—the sky-scraper of the Firm-i-meant; and peruse what my prophecy doth, by a ruse, foretel. See the signs of my designs. Now, high in the mid-heaven, behold _Albertus Sagittarius_ as the Cupid Archer, driving his love-dart through the window of that constellatory hotel, known in great and little Britain by the sign of the _Virgo_ and _Crown_. Behold the _Miss_ is _hit_. This is portentous of hymen; but other high men, lo! are typified in those dejected falling stars, pursuing their downward decadence from the court-yard of the palatial Inn. Now, then, shall marriage spread wide its pinions among people of all opinions, and the cord of con-cord shall be tied. See that gorgeous hecatomb of _hearts_, which the young _trump, Love_, fires and inspires with fame and flame. He, behold, is the rightful Duke of _Victoria; husbanding_ his resources, and yet setting the tide of conquest through the world. Baby linen becomes shortly at a premium, and my art foresees a prevalence of _Sun_ and _Air_!

_Whirled_ into fire, see the political _world_, and _ire_ burst from the soil of _Ire_-land. In fancy, I behold the flames, now in _in_-fancy, mount and swell. Jack _Frost_ sits melancholy mad, and burns his fingers by the blaze he essays to raise; but there are other _Jacks_ that want _roasting_, which the courteous Reader will _smoke_. The _broils_ are not over; and, though the fierceness of the fire of politics will not evaporate the Thames, yet, from Westminster to the Tower, it shall send forth a _hissing noise_.

But sit thou lightly on thy throne, Victoria! for the tumult shall be _tumultum in parvo_; and thy people, convinced that it was _infra dig._ to abandon the _spade_ for the pike, and assume the habits of the _rake_, will leave the fields of speculation for those of agriculture; and their sons and daughters, emulating thy good example, will betake them to arts of _husband_ry, cast away their _divisions_ for _multiplication_, and thus enjoy the Irish _sunshine_ of a genial _reign_.

RIGDUM FUNNIDOS.

THE
COMIC ALMANACK
FOR 1841.

COMMONS, BUT NOT SHORT COMMONS

The bar of the House.
]

A sergeant at arms.
]

Milton on Stilton.
]

MARTYRS IN PRISON.

Sheriffs in custody!—in very quod!
Deep, but still jolly, in their dreadful sin;
Both reg'lar rum 'uns,
Each a noble feller,
And living just as if the House of Commons
Had got a splendid cellar,
And shoved 'em in the Duff and Gordon bin!
How very odd!
A sheriff's officer's the soul of _trap_,
Like pot-house people, always at the _tap_,
Though not a _bar_-gent.
Thanks that no sheriff here was sent to prison
By any _officer_ of his'n
Tapp'd in the time of "tarms:"
But simply handed over to a _sergeant_
At arms!
These are no poets robb'd of attic bliss,
For when did Grub-street feed on grub like this?
Ham, chicken, veal, or tongue
For supper, 'stead of the "Night Thoughts" of Young;
Stilton,
Instead of Milton,
Champagne most sparkling, _eau de vie_ most fiery,
And baskets full of cards of fond inquiry!

J orums of punch, the bowl a very fixture,
A nd made, like snuff, a sort of Prince's mixture;
N o end of wine, and, ergo, no repining,
U seful distinction betwixt wine and whining;
A prison-palace—comfortable, airy,
R ather a safe than dungeon, though terms vary;
Y our sheriffs keep good terms with JANUARY.

6. Twelfth Day.

That biggest cake, so prime and nice,
What's its price?
Guineas two!—well, there I'm done!
What's the other?—guinea one!
Humph! that little 'un—you can buy
For half-a-guinea:—O my eye!
If you please, a penny bun!

JANUARY—Twelfth Night—drawing Characters.
]

TWELFTH NIGHT.

(_Not_ SHAKSPEARE'S.)

Miss Miffins was a blooming nymph,
Of almost half a cent'ry,
Who long had grieved her book of life
To keep by single entry.

She'd once a quiver-full of beaus;
Old, young, short, tall, dark, light:
Stokes, Nokes, Tibbs, Nibbs, Hill, Till, Fox, Knox
But never Mister Right.

In fact, she was a _leetle_ proud,
And loved to play and park it;
And so, like many another _fair_,
She'd overstood her _market_.

The Baker woo'd her once, and oft
At eve love's tale would tell her;
But all she said to him was this,
"Begone you kneady feller!"

The Pieman, too, had tried his luck:
But there again her pride
Stood in her way: she couldn't bear
To be a Tarter's bride.

The man "wot drives the pleasure wan"
Had loved her to insanity;
But, as she said, "What's pleasure? Stuff!
And wans is nought but wanity!"

The Miller next, in honey'd words,
That love so promptly teaches,
Assail'd her heart. But "Come," said she,
"None of your _flowry_ speeches!"

The Clothesman, too, although a Jew,
Desired to be her beau;
But finding _Phillis_ look so cold,
Return'd to his old "Clo'."

The Pawnbroker had also shown
A flatt'ring predilection:
But "No," said she, "don't look to me
For Pledges of affection."

Thus all the men she jilted then,
And one reply they got:
"She'd rather live without a tie"—
But now—she'd rather knot.

So one twelfth-day—that is, one sixth—
She went the cakes to view:
Like all the world, who feel, that day,
A cake-oëthes too.

Of course the boys soon pinn'd her fast,
(No greater plagues on earth!)
And her poor gown became the vic-
Tim of their boy-strous mirth.

A cracker, too, by sad mischance,
And while with fear she panted,
At one fell bounce, soon fired her flounce—
Though not the spark she wanted.

A hero bold who stood close by,
Quick to her rescue flew,
And tore away the flaming robe:—
Her pocket vanish'd too.

She went into a fit—so strong,
That two young Tailors swore
They'd never seen in all their lives
So tight a fit before.

The swain into whose arms she'd fall'n,
When to herself she'd come,
Seeing that she was "all abroad,"
Begg'd he might see her home.

Arrived, they talk'd of this and that,
Love, war, and heroes dead.
A soldier he—a man of rank
(And file, he might have said)—

A Polish Count, a Knight Grand Cross,
K. X., and Q. E. D.;
Grand Master of the Blood-red Dirk,
And R. O. G. U. E.

In fine, to make a long tale short,
He tickled her ambition;
And soon at Church persuaded her
To _altar_ her condition.

Then off she wrote to all her friends—
Aunt Smith and Cousin Cole;
To tell them all the news, how she
Was tied to a great Pole.

But, oh! pride, pride must have a fall;
Her cash he soon got through:
And then, one mizzling Mich'lmas day,
The Count he mizzled too.

And ever since, on fair Twelfth Night,
A wand'ring form is seen:
A female form, and this its cry:—
"Vy vot a Cake I've been!"

Curiosities of Ornithology.
]

A MARRY-TIME VIEW.

10. Queen Victoria's marriage.

A wedding ring.
]

General Jam.
]

A Watchman in Seven Dials.
]

To gaze upon the wide expanse of ocean,
Far as horizon, I confess, sublime;
To feast our eyes on nuptial groups in motion,
Is, notwithstanding, just as _marry time_.

A Royal wedding host and pouring rain,
Both rushing on to-gether, and to boot,
By the park railway, carriages in train,
With shoals of footmen and of men on foot.

A gathering of the people, all from home,
The _reigning_ Queen and _raining_ sky to view;
In Italy the millions rush to _Rome_,
Are they not free to _roam_ in London too?

Throngs of the curious—curiously met,
An inconsistent batch of low and high;
Drunkards, for instance, getting drench'd with _wet_,
And still declaring they were very _dry_!

Women with _pattens_ found to _clog_ the way,
Young thieves aspiring to the golden fleece,
'Mid torrents fair, that soaked, with equal play,
A new policeman, or a new pelisse.

Tea-totallers, with spirits under proof,
And lots of water for them overhead,
There was, because men would not stand aloof,
A general _jam_, but one that wouldn't _spread_!

Matters grew pressing, and, without regard
To toes or ribs, a bonnet or a belly,
The _jam_ I speak of soon became so hard,
It nearly jammed some people to a _jelly_!

Yet at that Royal wedding, people say,
The pickpockets their trade did sadly botch;
For one industrious youth came all the way
From _Seven Dials_ to steal a _single watch_!

The new Belle and Crown.
]

12. 11th Hussars, called Prince Albert's own.

God save the Queen!—we love her, and the sign is—
Millions of warm huzzas still greet her throne;
One thousand prime hussars she gives his Highness
But she is more than them—Prince Albert's own.

SAINT VALENTINE.

_Des Oiseaux._

Sweet Valentine, thy praise is heard
In ev'ry grove so green, oh!
And thousand birds press on to join
The _Concert Valentino_.

There's not an oak, or ash, or elm,
But some fond couple bears;
The very apple-tree itself
Is cover'd o'er with pairs.

And though the groves are bare of leaf,
As far as eyes can reach;
And not a bough one bud can boast,
They've lots of flow'rs—of speech.

There's young Jack Daw, and young Mac Caw,
And Phil O'Mel (though late),
Each pressing on his am'rous suit,
With all his feather weight.

The beaux so very pert are grown,
That, when their lady wills,
Like oppositionist M.P.'s,
They wont withdraw their bills.

There's Mister Ostrich 'mong the belles
Is quite a forward chap,
Which, Ostrich-like, he seems to think
A feather in his cap.

Miss Pelican declares her beau
Is got beyond endurance;
And wonders at—she really does—
His Pelican Assurance.

Miss Pigeon's trying to look shy,
_He's_ calling her "crosspatch!"
But, though a Pouter now she seems,
'Twill be a Pigeon match.

The Peacock leads his belle along,
And presses her to wed;
And now he gives his lips a feast,
Then gives his tail a spread.

Each fowl has got some pretty gift
Beneath his am'rous wing:
Some offer wreaths of orange flow'r;
The Dove has brought his ring.

There's not a birdie, young or old,
But feels that love has caught her:
The Eagle wants a little _sun_,
The Daw a little Daw-ter.

It's no use feigning this and that,
For little Love, ifegs!
Is firm, and makes each lady bird
Confess that "eggs _is_ eggs."

List to the loves of Lisson-grove,
From robin, lark, and linnet;
While _busses_ from the _Nightingale_
Are passing ev'ry minute.

The very _bosom_ of the deep
Seems under love's soft sway;
And flocks of water-fowl are seen
Indulging their fowl play.

There's rev'rend Rook, and Daw, his clerk,
Sitting with well-stuff'd craws,
Read to lend a helping hand
To forward the good _caws_.

Each bird a poet now becomes,
And sings some sad refrain:
The Yellow-hammer ev'n has got
His yellow-ham'rous strain.

Some try to shine in repartee,
Who can't be smart in ditty;
The very Peewit on the heath
Turns all at once peewit-y.

I know not if the birds have part
In our new marriage laws;
But if they've not, it's clear they ought
To have their special _claws_.

In faithfulness they beat us far;
For, spite of all their freaks,
You never see the feather'd tribe
Going before their _beaks_.

So fare-you-well, fair ladies all;
I hope, before next spring,
Throughout the land you'll set the bells
All of a wedding ring.

MARCH. [1841.

Alderman Armour.
]

HAT-ON GARDEN.

Vell, I'd give a farden to know vy they calls this here Hatton Garden. I'm sartain sure it must be done in jest; for if every hat aint hoff instead of hon, I'm blest! Hat on, indeed! vell, sartinly it's vindy; and here's a pretty shindy. They've rose the flat'lent element at last, and here it's peppering on, a precious blast! It's nuffin but a reglar blast of ruin, undoin' every von vith vot it's doin. Vell, blacksmiths must be most unconscionable fellows, if, such a day as this, they vants a bellows. I can't even svear; my pals u'd hardly know me: I don't feel no occasion to say "blow me." Oh! oh! here's a go! The voman's blowing over; she's a reglar charmer, but so unkimmon fat it can't much harm her. Vont there be chimbley accidents:—ay! lots. Look, look at Harmer and Flower's flower-pots; they're a fallin' on that old gentleman's head as valks below; and vot's vurse, it's too vindy for him to return the "blow." [They say as Alderman Harmer has left the town off, and he's made a breeze in the city vith the vind as he vhisk'd his gown off.] Vell, I'm hoff, so here goes; my eyes, how it blows! That ere image-boy can't hold his tray; ain't his kings and queens, and dukes, a rattlin avay. There goes a couple slick; the vind's broke Vellington and little Vic. Go it, my hearty! that's it, you've shivered Bonyparty; and, notwithstanding the furious vay in vich it blows and rains, if he ain't a stopping to pick up Napoleon's remains! Vell, I've heard of "mad as a March air," and precious mad I find it is, still I can't say as I care: as long as I get home safe, and there's nobody killed, I sees no great harm _in_ it; only I hopes that them as vere particularly anxious to raise the vind, is vell satisfied this very minit!

16. Gibbon died, 1794. "De _gusti_bus non est disputandum."
High winds, and no mistake.

"Will you not take another cup?" said the mistress of the tea-party. "No," answered the awkward gentleman, who had prematurely risen to depart; but, upon the word, his foot slipped over the hearth-rug, and he fell. "In refusing that cup of tea, and tumbling so soon after, you remind me of 'Gibbon's Roman Empire,'" said the wag of the tea-party. "Why?" "Because you are a living illustration of the _decline and fall_."

MARCH—Theatrical fun-dinner
]

THEATRICAL FUN DINNER.

The Bard of Avon summon'd his ghosts
Around his own bright shade, in hosts,
And the characters came to the Poet of Fame,
To hear his mighty say.
"Well, now," he cried, "bright spirits all,
Hither to-day you have my call,
To quit the volume in which you are bound,
And make, together, a holiday round,
And go in a group to the play."
So the principal characters, giving a look
Of delight, jumped out of the Shakspeare book;
Daylight was on the wane.
Out they skipped, ready equipped,
And started for Drury Lane.
In full-ness of his _fat_ led Falstaff, spruce and clean,
(No false staff wanted he whereon to _lean_)—
The van.
Othello, black, beneath his dazzling vest,
Polished with Warren's best,
Look'd just the man
For women fair to love him,
You felt you couldn't take the _shine_ out of him!
Romeo escorted Juliet—pretty lisper, _she_ fed on Romeo's whisper.
Hamlet, the fencing dueller,
(The only modern Hamlet we can boast,
Was born a jeweller;
Just as each uncle that our poets sing
Reigns now a pawnbroker, and not a king);
Hamlet, I say, took up his princely post,
Between his uncle and his father's ghost.
Shylock, the Jew that Shakspeare drew,
Had nobody to _draw_ him now—so _walked_;
Macduff, Macbeth, Iago, and the rest,
Marched all abreast.
The witch alone, dress'd in her riding-hood,
Travelled upon her broomstick, as she should.
Grov'ling below her, in the rear,
Crawled Cali_ban_,
While Clown
Turned somersets eternal up and down,
That he was born, to make it plain appear,
A Somerset man!
On, a few paces, jolly Bardolph goes,
To light the party with his flaming nose.
Now they gain Drury Lane:
There, of course, they need do no more
Than present themselves at the free-list door;
Over the book Jack Falstaff bends,
To write the name of "Shakspeare and Friends."
When, lo! with sighs, and tears in his eyes,
And to everybody's immense surprise,
Mr. Parker cries,
With a look of most discomfiting woe,
"I'm exceedingly sorry to tell you so,
But 'Shakspeare and friends' are now no go;
No go, I say, but to go away.
They are struck entirely off the list;
For the whole concern has taken a twist.
It's the Chamberlain's pleasure, I vow, with pain,
And Shakspeare's diddled at Drury Lane!"
By Falstaff's flabbergastered frown,
You see he now is thoroughly down,
Where he stood before like a swell so nobby,
He's ready to burst with passion and thirst,
And he'd get up a row, and bully 'em now,
But he sees the new police in the lobby.
So, to hide what he feels, he turns on his heels,
And to all his retinue making a sign,
Shouts, "Boys, follow me on the road to dine!
As we are not free at this house of base uns,
We'll march at once to our own Freemason's;
The _Cuff_ that will greet us there, we know,
Is better than this last knock-down blow;
And there—of us every mother's son—
Shakspeare saint, or Shakspeare sinner,
As bonny before we've often done,
On the fat of the land, will feast at a grand
Theatrical Fun
_Dinner_!"
The tavern is open, they've gathered 'em there,
Fat old Falstaff has taken the chair;
He's eating away like an old gormandizer,
Who's been into College and come out a _sizer_.
And Bartley perceives, now he's taken enough in,
That Falstaff himself cannot play without _stuffing_.
Close behind his benevolent face,
And belly and back, as he's taking his whack,
Good Master Clown is making grimace,
And acting toastmaster-in-chief of the place.
Falstaff glows, from his top to his toes,
His great big body keeps warming his clothes,
As he puffs and blows, while his glass overflows,
He is lighting his clay pipe at Bardolph's nose
Drury Lane has dismissed him, alack!
But Falstaff's accustomed to _getting the sack_!
There he sits like a friar or monk,
Till the guests around grow uncommonly drunk;
The witch of the party, with gin they cram her,
In their eager strife for the good of the _dram her_;
But Shakspeare's voice, from bottle and stoup,
Warned all the spirits to go their ways,
And Cruikshank had hardly finished his group,
Ere they'd all got home to their several plays!

APRIL—"I know a bank" Shaks: (A consol-atory refletion)
]

[Sidenote: Dandies ask, How will the weather go?]

A heavy swell.
]

[Sidenote: Rainbows for
fine beaux,
whether or no!]

FISHER'S LAKE SCENERY.

Among sweet April showers there's no dangler
So persevering as your fervent angler:
Left, by less fond companions, in the lurch,
Upon his lonely boat he'll take his _perch_,
And fish for ever there by _line_ and rule,
His poets must be all of the _Lake_ school,
The only prose writers he'd ever brook,
In social brotherhood, are _Pool_ and _Hook_;
Beat him on land, he thinks the insult odd,
Beat him by water, and he'll kiss _the rod_;
Has he a secret you would know past doubt,
Your only chance with him's to _worm_ it out:
Take him abroad to ride, he'd rather die
Than have a coach, if he could get a _fly_:
He'd like to sit for life upon a raft,
In perpetuity of gentle _craft_!
What if a little hostel, by the stream,
Offer "fish, gratis!" what is that to him?
He'd rather sit, when clouds have hid the sun,
Between the rain and river, catching none.
What are the jolly inmates all about?
Drinking warm brandy, genial ale, or stout:—
And he? Oh! he is _taking cold without_!

12. Easter Monday.

"Mayn't _I_ go to the _fair_, ma'am?" Bet inquires;
"Suppose all sorts of evils there beset you:"
"Missis, I aint that sort of girl, you know,
Harmless fair fun is all as I desires:"
"Well, if the weather's fair enough to go,
I think it will be only fair to let you:"
So fair, fair girl, fair day, and fair permission,
With the fare to the fair crown Bet's condition!

Poet's corner.
]

23. Death of Shakspeare, 1616.

"Sweet Bard of Avon!"—"Well," says Jack, "how you
Can call him Bard of A-won, goodness knows!
I'm sure as I don't: stop! I think I do;
He stands A 1, at Poet's Lloyd's, I s'pose!"

POETIC LICENCE.

I say, lend me a crown!
I've only three shillings in my pocket:
Well, hand them over, and then you'll owe me two!

DIVIDEND DAY AT THE BANK.

What a crowd! what a crush!
What a row! what a rush!
What screaming, and tearing, and noise,—
Of cabmen and footmen, policemen and bus-men,
And poor little run-over boys!
From Lombard-street, Prince's-street, Broad-street,
King-William-street,
On they come driving full spank:
Old and young, great and small,
Fair and brown, short and tall;
For it's Dividend Day at the Bank.

Oh! it's Dividend Day!
Oh! it's Dividend Day!
And all sorts of queer incongruities:
Old men and young maids, deaf ears and bright eyes,
Are coming to claim their annuities.
All questions now cease—
Is it war? is it peace?
Who cares! Or for news of the Frank!
For Fleet or Conscription,
Turk, Russ, or Egyptian?—
It's Dividend Day at the Bank.

"Dear uncle," says Miss,
With a smile and a kiss,
"How rosy you're looking to-day!
Stay! stop! stand you still!
There's a fly on your frill!
Psh! there, now I've brush'd it away.
And here, look, dear nunks, is a beautiful purse:
There, take it—no words—hush—don't thank!"
And another great buss
Accomp'nies the "puss"—
(☞It's Dividend Day at the Bank.)

The merchant on 'Change
Thinks it looks _rayther_ strange
That his wife should come out all that way—
From Kennington-common—
Such a very fat woman!
And such an "uncommon hot day!"
To meet her "dear duck,"

Her "love" and her "chuck:"
And then she's so hearty and frank,
Prates and chirps like a bird,—
But, of course, not a word
About Dividend Day at the Bank.

The Minister now,
With pre-occupied brow,
On some "secret service" is gone;
While loyal committee,
From borough or city
Is left in its glory alone.
"Yet he promised to be
Here exactly at three—
Only think! and a man of his rank;
And possessing such zeal
For the national weal!"—
But it's Dividend Day at the Bank.

Now summer suns glow,
And summer buds blow,
And summer birds gladden each hour;
While soft strains of love
Are heard from above,
And Beauty sits lone in her bow'r:
Sits lone in her bow'r,
And droops like the flow'r
That of rain or of dew hath not drank
To her lover she cries;
But no lover replies!—
It's Dividend Day at the Bank.

Oh! the poet may sing
Of the beauties of Spring,
In a hymn to the sweet first of May;
The hero attune,
To the eighteenth of June,
His glorious, uproarious lay;
To Saint Valentine's morn
Let lovers forlorn
Write verses, in rhyme or in blank;
I'll carol my lays
To the glory and praise
Of Dividend Day at the Bank.

I wish

you may

get it.

Polish Fate.
]

MAY GAMES.—HOGG'S-WAKE.

The village is out, the village is out,
Peasant and clodhopper, fool and flout;
Fast in the collars the grinners are seen,
And the squeaking grunter is loose on the green:
Halloo him, follow him, frighten him on!
Whip him and skip him, fast bid him be gone!
'Bout him, and knout him, and give him the flail,
And put plenty of soap on his curly tail!
Thus, in the midst of a beautiful run,
My _tale_ is begun, my _tale_ is begun!
Like a man after lodgings, who's got a first _floor_,
You're down on your belly, you country boor;
And his tail has given your fingers more
Soap than they've seen for a year before;
Good little tail, sleek, greasy, and lean,
Trying the villagers' hands to clean;
And see how they flounder, and see how they fail,
In seeking to hold by the slippery tail!
Thus, while pig and tail the villagers diddle,
My tale's in the middle, my tale's in the middle!
'Mid laughter, 'mid laughter, ran after! run after!
The tail of the grunter taunts great and small!
Catch it you can't, for it bobs aslant,
Like an eel that's beating the heels of you all!
That pig so sleek, it'll hold for a week
Its present connexion 'twixt Grisi and squall;
Till fairly worn out with its slipping about,
When you catch it, it wont have a _tail_ at all:
So here, at the tail of the sport, my friend,
My tale and the pig's tail are both at an end!

Cotter's Saturday Night.
]

27. Order of the Bath. 1725. Water witch.

(Family Tale of a Tub.)

31. Wit Monday.

Admiral De Witt.
]

Pray, who is the fellow of infinite fun,
Of whom men declare that his _wit_, like the _sun_,
Shines and sparkles along—that its bright sallies glide
Like a fresh summer river at flow of its _tide_?—
Why, join wit, sun, and tide, and it's perfectly clear
You mean jolly young _Whitsuntide_—Prince of the year!

MAY—Settling for the Derby—Long odds and long faces.
]

SETTLING DAY AT "THE CORNER."

"As I was going to (the) Derby,
All on, &c."—OLD SONG.

I wish I'd never bet;
I wish I'd never seen a horse or colt;
I wish I'd never join'd that jockeying set
I wish I'd stopped away
From Epsom on the Derby Day—
And all such places!
I wish I'd kept at home,
And never shown my person at a
Hippodrome.
I wish, instead of going like a dolt
To those horse races,
I'd gone to Cowes Regatta!

We've all our ups and downs, I know,
Both great and small;
But, oh!
Those Epsom Downs are worst of all.

What could have made me join those gambling jockeys?
(Out-of-door Crockies:)
How could I reckon so without my host?
How could I, cockney born and bred,
So run my head
Against that betting post?
Brought up in staid pursuits
(Not among nasty animals and brutes),
How could I think, to such a blust'ring clan,
My reason and my cash to yield?
I never was a martial man;
How could I "take the field?"

Why did I, stupid dolt,
Back that confounded, desperate Solace colt,
Or of that mulish Muley make a pet?
No doubt, large sums I thought of soon amassin';
But what a double ass I was to bet
On that Ass-ass-in!

The bounds of prudence how hard to regain!
When once a man o'ersteps 'em!
But I have done: Richard's himself again!
Yes, be assured,
I'm now completely cured;
At least, this _shall_ be my last dose of Epsom.

It was an awful moment—that run-in—
(Especially for those young minors short of tin!)
I own I felt my heart sink then,
And all my thoughts seemed driven into a "Corner:"
And then I thought of North America, and Canton,
And then I turned a scorner
Of men,
And thought of Joseph Manton.
And then the race-course whirled before my eyes;
And then I heard a voice, in words of thunder,
Say,
"Heyday,
Good sir! you seem to have some great surprise."
"Yes, and it's Little Wonder!"

However, now
That's past,
And I have made a vow
That bet shall be my last.
All wagers now I nauseate and detest
("Odds" and the rest);
All jockeys hate,
(Welter and feather weight);
All meetings fly
(October and July);
In short, I think all racing sad,
And all its courses bad.
And as for the stupidity of those who go,
The difference, I trow
(If there's a tittle),
'Twixt Donkey-ster and Ass-cot's mighty little.

I've burnt my "books;" no horse again I'll back
(Racer or hack):
No more I'll hedge: and by the Grecian gods,
I'll not stand on the long odds.
With tens, and fives, and fours, and threes to one
I've done. I've done with saying "Done, done, done!"
My means no more I'll stake upon a Derby Day:
It's my last lay.

From this day forth for evermore,
Though I should live to four—or forty score,
I'll never lay another shilling—
If I do I'm a villain—
(Be this the moral of my tale),
Though you should make me the most tempting offer—
Golconda to an empty coffer—
A thousand sterling to a pint of ale—
You shan't prevail.
No matter what the sum
I wont.
* * * * *
Come,
I'll bet you half-a-crown I don't!

JUNE—The unlicensed Victuallers Dinner.
]

1841.] JUNE.

THE OXFORD ARMS.

DEER SUZAN,

I set up all Knigt to set down to rite u a bout a horrit deed that has put all the grate Law yers to work, and has been a drawin Thiers from the Nayshuns hies. It is a shock King crime, no less than a shoot in at the Queen. The assassin-hating will-in was quite in low life—nort but a pot-boy! (not as that is any dis-a-peerage-ment; for I here there is Potts a arch deecon, and Fill pots a Bishup;) but he did not ware his best to go before her Mad-jest-i, but own lie his work-a-day close, which I think was tatterd and torne, for I hurd mast her say he went there with ragged Side intenshuns. One thing is de-litefull to no, that the Queen got off as well as the pistoll, witch the will-in tuk. From the way he prescented the weppon, it is thort he is one of the leveling classes, though it is won-durd what his aim could be. Sum say he wos like Sir Wall-ter scots True Bar door,

"Burn-in with luv—to fire for fame;"

which I cant see, as that true bar door came "beneath his lades windo;" but this pot-boy went into the O pen park, and turn'd the Queen quite pail, a shoot in thru the pail-ings! The Public in dig Nashun nose no bounds: the Public Houses of the People, with their benches and their bar, are to Congrat tulerate the Queen on her he scape from the pot-boy. He was a errand will-in; and as he was tuk in one Park, i understand he is to be tried by another, wot is as good a Judge as he. His name is oxford, and a hug lie feller he is, tho no feller, I am tolld, of the Oxford wot has a call edge on the banks of the Ices, which is a river, you No, and, I spoze, is all ways froze. They say the grand jury cant help find in a true Bill aginst him, which reminds me of my own true Bill, who lives with farm her Constant. Give my luv to him, and all so kep it for yourself; and so for the present good buy. Yours till deth,

CARRY LINE.

A Bacon Frier.
]

11. Bacon died. 1294.

_A_ con about _Ba_-con.

"Why is a good cook like a Student of Philosophy?"
Because she has long been accustomed to _fry her bacon_.

Bacon's a bygone, for him I don't care,
More than girls care for school when they're out of their teens;
Don't call him a bygone—of _Bacon_ I swear,
It's more proper to class him among the _has-beans_.

19. Queen Victoria's Accession.

As once our Queen _succeeded_ to the throne,
Setting her people all to merry-makings;
So may she not succeed to that alone,
But eke succeed in all her undertakings!

AN UNDERTAKER.

Pray, sir, what has been your largest undertaking in life?

Why, I once took ten shillings in the pound on a debt of ten thousand,
and that was the largest undertaking I ever had.

THE LICENSED VICTUALLERS' DINNER.

The dinner of the Licensed Victuallers is better to them than the wisdom of Solomon, or the ore of lore: it is their feast of literature, for they consider it in the light of a splendid annual—magnificently bound in calf for society—with the _cloth_ edition especially reserved for themselves. It is a pleasure to behold their spread, the chairman soaring into Epicurean sublimity, like the _spread eagle_, or feasting like the golden vulture upon quid _vult_. See, they have gathered in the strength of their conviviality. Every one of them is a landlord, if not a lord of the land; how they labour at their vocation of cram! Their festive board has become a board of works; and they are all busy about the pleasantest half of the trade of _carver_ and gilder. Every man, like a tailor, is taking his full measure; their whole vision is given to the pro-vision; and they are now, more than doctors and lawyers, among the _feed_. Pollok's "Course of Time" is nothing to the course of victuals now produced. All the creatures that figure on their sign-boards have been brought up and dressed for the nonce. Rarities are here, which it must have required a new edition of "Cook's Voyages" to procure. The _Goose with_ the _Gridiron_, the Magpie _without_ the _Stump_, the _Swan with two Necks_, and the throttle of some youthful Boniface acting _Lad-lane_ for the luxury: a joint from the Pig in the Pound; the Blue Boar done thoroughly brown; the meek Lamb sent saucey from the Mint; the Dolphin, by off-slicing process, changing its size and not its dyes; the "Cock" with exquisite stuffing, so that it emulates a firm of city silversmiths, and becomes "Cock Savoury;" the Hen and Chickens, quite a gentle brood, roasted for food; "the Salmon," accustomed to swim, now beginning in consequence to sink; and last, not least, the Peacock assisting at the spread! Sure here is food for reflection, and the _great body_ of Licensed Victuallers may rejoice in the victuals thereof.