Chapter IX (14)

The servants, too, must have their rout
(I love to see them gay and glad);
But then they needn't all have got
So _very_ drunk—and very mad;
And give one warning "then and there,"
And bid me "take my beef and beer;"
And beg I'd "pay their wages up:"—
But Christmas comes but once a year.

The Christmas bills are pouring in,
My family's increasing fast;
Four girls, five boys—Ann, Kate, Jane, Sue,
Tom, Dick, Jack, Fred, and Prendergast:
And nurse has just come in to say,
Another "little stranger" dear
Is just arrived—there, that makes ten:—
But Christmas comes but once a year.

BOTHERUM ASTROLOGICUM PRO ANNO 1841.

Note now, oh! reader, the denotements of my prophet sketch: open your eyes upon the symbols which I symbolize. Behold the Cross and the Crescent in neighbourly collision; yet the Crescent is not Burton Crescent, nor the Cross, King's Cross, though these localities approximate in as close degrees: but they tell of Europe cooking the Goose of a Pacha for the Turkey of a Sultan; and, by this time, the bird is plucked and basted, and may be considered as thoroughly done. Witness, too, how the dismayed tee-totaller gazes on the wreck of the Chinese world below. But Bull is in the heart of the shop; no juggler could save the jugs; every cup is a cup too low; the plates are dished entirely, and the case of cruelty is equal in atrocity to the murder of _Ware_. Now is exemplified the difference between a Man-_da_rin and a daring man. It is breaking-up time, but no holidays. Loud is the music of _Handle_ among the crockery, but its verbal oratory is demolished by the entire annihilation of spout. It is going to _pot_ with a vengeance, and occasions, in China, the perfect distortion of _every human mug_. Tea, however, is scarce for a season. They refuse to give us their green for our gunpowder: they mix their mixed with poison, and it is now "How queer!" instead of "How-_qua_!" They refuse the bidding of Pidding! But turn from hieroglyphic revealments to the signs and prognostics of the domestic world. Is your curiosity moved to interest in the play of Destiny? I then will act the part of _Tell_. Upon the palace of Victoria I behold the shining of a new _sun_; the hopes of royalty may now be _boy_-ed up, and a fair young passenger lately arrived by the first royal _train_ will move to another _station_, and take a place lower, by reason of what has taken place. I see the world settling, like cards, into _pax_. Peace coming a-_pace-is_: war we shall pose with repose. The political horizon shows clear. There will be an improvement in the State; and notwithstanding the recent explosion of Dr. Church's engine, I foresee no danger to Church. On the contrary, the sun will shine on Parson's Green; and, as regards the revenue, there is every chance for a _surplice_; probably owing to the New Church rate at which the said engine is going.

DR. CHURCH'S ENGINE.
]

LATEST NEWS FROM COURT.

Nov. 21st, 1840.—Princess Royal brought in, and "ordered to be laid on the table," like a _bill_.

Dec. 3rd.—Bill Jones found under the table, and ordered to be sent to the _Counter_ like a _willain_. ("_So much for Buckingham!_")

A little girl, a stranger in the palace
Came, and the nation there was nothing sad in;
Aladdin's lamp then brightened joy's full chalice,
How very different when they found _a lad in_!
The little boy's intrusion proved annoyant,
The little girl made all a little buoyant?

ORIGINAL NOTES.
FROM THE
BIRMINGHAM MUSICAL FESTIVAL FOR 1840.

SEPT. 23.—Birmingham Musical Festival.—Ordered a cab; made for Euston-square Station; landed awkwardly; got into port; ran against a man; trod on his toe; gave my own port-man-teau to the porter. Paid my fare; had the satisfaction of hearing the clerk say, "That's the ticket!" Was told I must be sure to shew it when called upon; said, "Very well;" always did like to have something to shew for my money. Travelled briskly; steam engine a giant apparatus—a sort of Colossus of Roads; found they'd got me into a line; couldn't help it; obliged to go; been a long while going. Arrived at last; put up at the Hen and Chickens; thought, from the sign of the house, charges might be fowl; agreeably surprised to find them fair.

_Monday._—Attended rehearsal. Splendid hall; grand interior; glorious outside; ruined the builders. Brought the stone from the Isle of Anglesea; sent the architects to the Isle of Dogs. Good rehearsal; noble orchestra; organ finely developed. Knynett acted non-conductor; stamped as if he was paying stamp duty; very droll; took the flats in, put the orchestra out. Glorious array of singers: Miss Birch stuck to her perch; Miss Hawes obeyed the laws; Dorus Gras—made no _faux pas_; Braham's throat gave tenor note; Phillips shone in barritone; big Lablache gave bass _sans tache_; Cramer led with cap on head; Loder and Cooke played by book; Dragonetti and Linley worked very well-o, on deep contra basso and violoncello; bassoon of Beauman bothered _no_ man; horn of Platt came in pat; Harper's trumpet obligato, capitally took its part-o; Cook played show-boy with his hautboy; and, to end without a blunder, Chipp's drum had, its leather under, half a ton of smothered thunder. Heard 'em play; remembered the railroad, and couldn't help thinking that I'd got off the _line_ into the _chords_.

_Tuesday._—Festival began. Shop full; a crammer for Cramer. You've heard of the Chiltern Hundreds, they're nothing to the Birmingham thousands. The seats were all uniform, but no uniform for the _staff_ officers, only ribbons in their button-holes; beaux with bows. Singers came on, and performance went off admirably.

_Wednesday._—Town crowded; weather wet, but the people pouring in faster than the rain; music hall made fine shelter; full again; Mendelsohn's hymn of praise produced lots of praise of him; people delighted; performance stupendous; singers tired; Phillips almost knocked up; went out to refresh himself; strolled too far, and was quite knocked down; robbed of his purse by three brutal button-makers; he treated them to some sovereigns; they treated him to an extra allowance of punch; he was bruised considerably, but his watch and his barritone escaped without injury; heard a _tallow_ chandler say, that Phillips and Mendelsohn were the heroes of the day, but that Mendelsohn had the glory of the _composition_, and Phillips of the _whacks_!

_Thursday._—Influx of nobility—nobs and bobs—Sir Robert Peel among the latter.

_Friday._—Festival over; grand fancy ball at night:

Drinking, dancing, all revel, no rest; proggery, toggery, all of the best; whisking, frisking, whirling about, till daylight comes, driving the candle-light out: then tired, not fired, their pillows they clinch, and the festival's come to its very last pinch.

MANNERS MAKE THE MAN.

Know ye the wight one frequent meets,
With brazen lungs around the streets
Soliciting a job?
His head in shovel-hat encased,
His legs in cotton hose embraced,
And nick-named "Dusty Bob?"

You hold in small account, no doubt,
One who "dust, oh!" doth bawl about,
Yet low as his estate,
Some philosophic thoughts belong
To him whose time is passed among
The ashes of the _grate_.

Still, these are matters all apart
From thy design, my muse, who art
Just now intent to tell
An episode of humble life,
That was with courtly manners rife,
And thus the chance befell.

"The rosy morn, with blushes spread,
Now rose from out Tithonus' bed,"
Which means, the world had set
(For these are unromantic days)
About its work, and gone its ways,
Forthwith to toil and sweat.

Among the many that arise,
To pay their morning sacrifice,
That is, to Juggernaut,
Themselves beneath Aurora's car,
With Pagan zeal your dustman are
Beyond all others fraught.

In sooth, to speak, we would not choose
To state these fellows _ever_ snooze,
For bitter as the bore is,
Nor night, nor morn, in square or street,
Can one go forth, but he must meet,
These grim "_memento moris_."

But to my tale: at break of day,
Up rose the hero of my lay,
With hope his spirits buoy'd;
And ever as he fill'd his cart,
He felt a space beneath his heart
Establishing a void.

Loud and more loud the murmurs rise,
Like an Æolian harp, whose sighs
At first breathe gently; but
Wild music from its bosom springs,
When the wind howls among the strings,
And agitates the gut.

Though Bob knew nought of Æolus,
He learnt, from this internal fuss,
'Twas time for breakfast now:
Or, as he said, "for bit and sup,
His innards was a kicking up
Sich a unkimmon row."

'Twas thus intent on _déjeûner_,
Our hungry dustman took his way,
In search of fitting food:
Nor long his quest, until he came,
Where a spruce, gay, and buxom dame,
Behind a counter stood.

And, as with horny fist he smoothed his hair,
He thus bespoke that lady debonaire:
"Cut us a slap-up slice of Cheshire cheese,
And tip's a twopenny burster, if you please."
Here, 'tis befitting to relate the guise,
In which Bob met the gentle lady's eyes.
A poll with matted carrots thatched,
A face with mud and smut bepatched,
A neck and chest scarce half begirt
With a lugubrious, yellow shirt,
A slip of waistcoat here and there,
Breeches, a demi-semi pair,
And not a vestige of a coat—
Such was our earthy _sans culotte_.

When such an apparition met her view,
What was most natural the dame should do?
Straightway address her dainty self,
To seek the treasures of her shelf?
Or clap some musty, antiquated crust,
Between the fingers of the man of dust?

The latter, doubtless, and it so fell out;
Turning, with ill-dissembled scorn, about,
The lady-baker hardly deigned to drop
Into his palm the patriarch of the shop;
A venerable roll, a fixture there—
A household nest-egg of the _boulangère_.

Here, a domestic mouse had, long ago
(Soon after it was dough),
Wreathed him, as Thomas Moore would say, "his bower"
Among the _flower_:
And happened, accidentally, to be
_Chez lui_,
When madame put the piece of antique bread
Into our dustman's hand, as hath been said.

Now, let me ask, had Chesterfield been placed,
What time his chyle with exercise was braced.
To make his meal from off a living mess,
D'ye think my Lord had kept his _politesse_?
Or acted, as did Bob, the man of dirt,
Who, on the instant that he did insert
His thumb and finger in that roll so stale,
Pull'd out the squeaking vermin by the tail;
And seeing that the bak'ress looked aghast
Upon the means she gave to break his fast—
Blandly observed, "There's some mistake in this,
I didn't ax you for a sandwich, Miss!"

BRANDY AND SALT.

The wonderful cures effected by these ingredients have made such a noise in the world, that we cannot resist the temptation to publish a few facts and testimonies which have fallen under our immediate knowledge.

The first case was that of a poor man, who had been for years a martyr to the gout, and being desirous of trying the effects of the miraculous compound, but unable to purchase the ingredients, he tried another plan, and perfectly succeeded in removing every symptom of inflammation, by merely sitting a quarter of an hour with one foot in a brandy-keg, and the other in a salt-box.

THE FOLLOWING IS FROM A CORRESPONDENT.

"Dear Sir,—May I beg your insertion of the following?—I was terribly afflicted with cancer, heartburn, chilblains, thickness of breathing, warts, headach, numbness of the joints, deafness, sore throat, lumbago, toothach, loss of appetite, falling off of the hair, corns, &c. &c., when I was recommended to try the newly-discovered panacea; and, I am happy to say, after two bottles of the stuff, I am perfectly recovered. You are at liberty to make what use you think proper of this letter.

"Yours most obediently,

"F. FLAM.

"N.B.—None but the best French brandy will do, some very fine samples of which are on hand at my Warehouse, No. 99¾, Gammon Street, Hoaxton."

FROM ANOTHER CORRESPONDENT.

"sur—i Take the libberty of adressing yew about the brandy & sawlt. i was aflicted with dredfull lownes of sperits & rewmatism wich having freely aplide the abuv has boath Disapeard. sir my way of Aplying is the sawlt outside wonst a day & the brandy in twice evvery our. its effex is sumtims realy Asstonishing. my wife allso takes the abuv Meddisin in her tea, & finds grate bennifits.

"sir yewr Most obediant
"TUMMMAS SPOONEY.

"P.S.—sir a neyber of min Tride the abuv on his wife bean Bad skalded kiling a pig but Unlukky forgot to Put in the sawlt. owevver it was awl Verry wel, for the brandy aloan Cured his wife & now he's got the Sawlt to Cure his bakun."

ASSOCIATION OF BRITISH ILLUMINATI.

[_The following Extracts from the Proceedings of this illustrious
Body, at the Meeting of 1840, will be read, no doubt, with the
interest they deserve._]

Some very curious statistical and general reports were made by Mr. Colley Wobble, on the street refreshments of London. It appeared that the proportion of baked potatoe receptacles, or, as they were commonly termed, "hot tator cans," over kidney-pudding stalls, was as six to one. Of these cans one in seven was surmounted with lamps; one in three had a spare valve, to let off steam; and five out of nine used condensed Dorset scrapings, averaging about fourpence per pound. The kidney-pudding stalls appeared to confine their stations to the neighbourhoods of the minor theatres, and he could trace the effect of their nourishing principle in those thrilling and passionate outbursts, which melodramatic actors threw into such phrases as—"It _is_ my daughter!" "Begone, sir! and learn not to insult virtuous poverty;" and the like class. Some of the stalls were embellished with singularly curious transparent lanterns, representing theatrical subjects on their four sides.

Mr. Bobbledabs inquired what species of light was burnt inside these transparencies?

Mr. Colley Wobble defined it as produced by the combustion of atmospheric air, acting on a half-consumed continuity of a twopenny thick, set in argillaceous candlesticks. He was led to make these observations from having perceived a hole burnt in the lantern, where the candle had tumbled over. The learned gentleman added, in continuation, that one of the most favourite exhibitions was "Kerim and Sanballat fighting for a kidney-pudding, from Timour the Tartar." He had likewise observed William Tell shooting a kidney-pudding from Albert's head, and Mr. Stickney riding five kidney-puddings at once for a horse— he meant to say—that is—the Association would know what he meant.

Mr. Snuffantupenny inquired if these piquant preparations were expensive?

Mr. Colley Wobble estimated the general price at one penny each. When purchased, the vendor made a hole in them with the nail of his little finger, and poured in some warm compound, out of a blacking-bottle, with a quill in the cork. The liquid had been analyzed by Mr. Faraway, and was found to contain one part fat, one part furniture oil, two parts infusion of melt, and sixteen parts of hot water, with dirt in solution.

Mr. Gambado then read a talented paper on "The imaginary barrier precluding pickled whelks from the tables of the aristocracy;" and having finished, he begged to propose a Committee of Inquiry—why boiled crabs were sold at three a penny in Union Street, Middlesex Hospital, when you might purchase four, for the same sum, on Kennington Common?

Mr. Bobbledabs trusted his talented friend would remember that Kennington Common was nearer the sea-coast than Union Street.

Mr. Gambado sat corrected. While they were on the subject, however, he wished to say a few words on the connexion supposed to exist between the anatomical school of the said hospital—that was to say, the Middlesex— and the number of shops for the sale of old bones and doctors' phials, with which Union Street abounded; and why so many dissecting cases were to be seen in the window of the pop-shop at the corner.

Dr. Corfe thought the reason was obvious. The scalpels hybernated with the watches towards the end of November, and the students were thus, unavoidably driven to use penknives for lancets, and the small ends of tobacco-pipes for probes and blowpipes.

THE
COMIC ALMANACK
FOR 1842.

BEFORE DINNER, AND AFTER.

Guests were assembled—formal, prim, and staid—
The conversation did not yet come pat in;
The bachelor found speeches _ready made_,
The _ready maid_ looked twice as hard as Latin;
The lord was stiff—the lady half afraid
To spoil her _silk_ dress with the chair she _sat in_!

A dreadful dull demureness fill'd the place;
_Room-attics_ might be caught on that _first-floor_;
No _racy_ word from all the human _race_
There gathered—nothing to create a roar—
Weather and poetry their themes of grace—
They talked of snow, and _Byron_,—nothing _Moore_.

There broke no pun upon the startled ear—
Nothing the soul of etiquette to smother;
None were at home, but each on each did leer,
As who should say, "You're out," and "Does your mother?"
Their words were _dry_, and yet they did appear
To _throw cold water upon one another_!

They stood, or sat, like lumps of social stone,
Their _wheel_ of life went round, yet _no one spoke_;
Or, if they did, _not speeches from the thrown_
From horse or gig, were more devoid of joke;
The _little_ fire that, in the _grate_ had grown
Dim, had a longing for a stir, or poke.

The _hes_ were stupid, and, it might be said,
The _shes_ were as un_easy_ as the _hes_:
It was all _heavy_ there, and nothing _led_
To anything, but minding Q's and P's;
While every heart was absent, every head
Ran upon "soup, fish, flesh, fowl, tart, and cheese."

Nothing was _on the carpet_, when there came
This bright announcement:—"_Dinner on the table!_"
Then wagg'd the tongues, which soon began to frame
A young confusion, like to bees, or Babel,
And each face wore a smile, that quite became,
Just as a doctor's bottle wears a label.

Before dinner and after.
]

Dinner pass'd over—they were quite genteel;
The wine went very fast and freely round;
None vulgarly, that day, took _malt_ with _meal_,
But still in _the best spirits_ all were found;
As they sat at the table, they did feel
As if their _soles_ would never touch the ground.

The _cloth_ was _cut_, and the dessert was spread,
Fresh bottles crown'd the hospitable board,
Their jolly cheeks grew fast from _white_ to _red;_
So pass'd the wine—their bark of life was _moor'd_
Quite safe in _port_, while head did nod to head
Familiar as the scabbard to the sword.

Now grew the conversation fast to fruit,
The fruit had grown already very fine;
The _wine_ produced no _whining_, and, to boot;
No epicure repined about the _pine_;
But Love did all around his _arrows_ shoot,
Lanced from his _beaux_ against the ladies fine.

Each Miss's joke now made a pleasant hit,
No lover's _sally_ could be deem'd _a miss_;
Less stately, too, the dowagers did sit—
They let their feelings loose on that and this;
Their tongues, in fact, were _bridled_ not a _bit_—
The prude would have said "thank ye" for a kiss.

The guests gave out a host of best good things,
By way of compliment to their good host;
Brim full of eloquence, a friend upsprings,
And hopes that he will always rule the roast
The praises of the _belles_ another _rings_,
And turns, at once, "the Ladies" to a toast.

So freedom reigns; whereby it seemeth clear
That people grow most cordial after dinner;
Till then, the dearest woman seems less dear,
The thinnest gentleman's thin wit grows thinner;
The cheerful will be cheerless, without cheer—
You must have meat and drink, as you're a sinner!

THE GAIETIES OF TOM GAD.