Chapter IX (5)

I never gets a sight o' nothink good now—beefsteaks, nor anything else
that's nice:
No ingins (except steam ingins), and you may count my ribs (tho' you
can't the ribs of ice).
I did a job for a confectioner t'other day, as vos a trying to larn to
skate,
But his heels tript up right bang, and down he fell on the back of his
pate.
Vell, up I vips him in my arms, and carries him straight off home in a
trice.
I _did_ think I should get a glass of grog for that job, but, says he,
"Von't you take a ice?"
"No, Sir," says I, walking off wery indignant, and looking jest as sour
as sour crout,
"Ven I takes a drop o' liquor I al'ys has it 'varm vith'—I doesn't like
'cold vithout.'"

But it's no use talking, for talking only makes one more hungrier and more drier: And the heat of argiment's wery unlike the heat of a good kitchen fire. I'm as dry as an old boat, vot ain't good for nothink in life but to knock up and burn; And so I sees plain enough suicide's the only side on vich I can turn. Bless you, I'm as hollow as a drum, and as thin as any poor devil of a church mouse; So here goes for the fatal plunge—what's a plunge more or less to a man as hasn't got a _sous_?

Here goes—but, oh, crikey! vhere _am_ I to go to find a drop o' vater
un-froze?
Vell, that's the cuttingest thing of all—to think as a man can't put a
end to his woes
In his own native element, as he vos bred and born to, and lived in,
man and b'y,
Uppards of thirty-six year come next Midsummer (vich it never vill come
again to I).
Vell, I've tuck my leave of the river, and my poor miserable little
funny, so pretty and red:
I shall never shoot Lunnun Bridge no more, so I'll go and shoot myself
instead.

A CHARITY BALL—Dancing for the Million.
]

THE GOOD OLD TIMES.

Let others sing of times to come—
Of joys that never will!
My song shall be of days gone by:
So, boys, a bumper fill
To the good old times! oh, the good old times!
Their like we ne'er shall see:
The world was full of honest hearts,
And life went merrily.

In the days of youth, when all was flowers,
And ev'ry month was May,
And my spirits were light as the thistle down
And my heart was always gay,
I loved a fair and gentle maid
With all the constancy
That a mutual flame in youth can inspire:
But, alas! she jilted me.
Oh, the good old times! the good old times
Their like we ne'er shall see:
The world was full of honest hearts,
And life went merrily.

Friends of to-day, how vain are they!
The partners of an hour,
That fortune gathers round a man,
As sunshine wakes the flow'r.
_My_ friend and I, in infancy,
Play'd 'neath the same old tree:
One home was ours for long, long years,
Till my friend arrested me.
Oh, the good old times! the good old times!
Their like we ne'er shall see:
The world was full of honest hearts,
And life went merrily.

My country's cause was always mine—
Britannia, ocean's bride!—
A patriot's name my dearest boast,
A patriot's heart my pride.
My leader was "the people's friend;"
'Twas thus he gain'd my vote:
But they put him on the pension list,
And _the patriot_ turn'd his coat.
Oh, the good old times! the good old times!
Their like we ne'er shall see:
The world was full of honest hearts,
And life went merrily.

'Twas then I felt that honour dwelt
In noble ancestry;
That still in high and gentle blood
Some secret virtues lie.
My champion now I joy'd to hear
Rail at the parvenu:
But I soon found _him_ on the Civil List—
With his wife and cousins too.
Oh, the good old times! the good old times!
Their like we ne'er shall see:
The world was full of honest hearts,
And life went merrily.

Disgusted with the city's vice
I to the country sped.
A simple husbandman, my life
'Mid flocks and herds I led.
The livelong day I'd pipe and play,
Or on some thyme-bank sleep:
But at night they broke into my folds,
And stole my cows and sheep.
Oh, the good old times! the good old times!
Their like we ne'er shall see:
The world was full of honest hearts,
And life went merrily.

They told me 'twas my single state
That harass'd thus my life;
And to the altar soon I led
A young and lovely wife.
Oh! then what joys, what hopes were mine.
Life seem'd a brighter heaven:
But my wife eloped with her cousin Tom,
And left me infants seven.
Oh, the good old times! the good old times!
Their like we ne'er shall see:
The world was full of honest hearts,
And life went merrily.

MARCH [1838

MARCH,—S^t. Patrick's Day.
]

[Sidenote: MARCH
of Mind
in the
Privileged
Classes:
Marquess of
W——
and other
such asses.
⚹ ☿ ♏ ♀
♊ ☽ ♂ ☌
MARCH
of
Musical Science
also
'mong high
and low,
who jump
Jim Crow;

♀ ♒ ♄ ☿
the force of
taste
☍ ♈ ♀ ⚹
can
no further
go!]

TAFFY'S ANNIVERSARY.

Come, Liberality!—I hail the name,
Whether 'tis "all for love," or love for fame—
Whether to strike the world is your desire,
In printed lists of donors dubbed "Esquire;"
Whether to govern in those stately domes
Where Want's pale children sigh in vain for homes,
And few but those who're blest with wealth and kin,
And means to keep them out, can struggle in;
Whether you boldly sport your own bank-notes,
Or beg about for other people's votes;
Whether you fill the presidential chair,
Or join the throng because a Lord is there;
Or, like some Lords, whose plan is rather funny,
Put down your name, but never pay the money.
But if, like some, the only certain way
To reach your heart does through your stomach lay,
Then mount the leek, a true Saint David's son,
And let the fund afford a little fun,
'Mid warring knives, and charge of glasses' din,
Turn out your purse, and be well lined within.
Tough tho' the mutton, as a saddle, there,
Like Bardolph, you can eat, and "eat and swear,"
And doom, with aching teeth and furious looks,
The dinner to the sire of all bad cooks.—
But now behold, the dishes clear'd and gone,
Three dismal men who twine three tunes in one,
And send forth sounds, with faces sad to see,
Call'd by the chair, "The favour of a Glee."—
Appealing lists appal you now, and they
Are nail'd for pounds, who screw for pence all day.
But hear the sweet applauses of the crowd,
When Mister Secretary reads aloud
That Smith or Jones has put down One Pound One;
Then, if you've luck to get a hat, begone,
Unless you longing linger near the spot
To hear "Should auld acquaintance be forgot."

ST. PATRICK'S DAY.
_An Irish Mellow-day._

It was Paddy O'Murrough that lov'd Mistress Casey:
In ribbons for her he would squander his pelf;
And he swore that without her he'd never be aisy,
And sent her big praties to roast for herself.

He said she was "Vanus, and Mars, and Apolly,"
And twenty more goddesses up in de skies:
And never tired praising her swate little ankle,
And her swate little mouth, and her swate little eyes.

Says he, "Let de rest git dere bunches o' roses,
And stick 'em so iligant top o' dere head:
Och! Nora don't nade sich bamboozlificashin:
Her own purty locks is as bright an' as red.

"So, Nora, my darlint, now take pity on me—
Ochone! but 'tis luv is de terrible smart!
An och, bodderashin! 'tis Misther O'Cupid
Wid his little shilaly is breakin' my heart!"

'Twas Lent when Pat said so,—but Nora said, "No, Sir;"
She knew 'twas no use at that time to consent;
But by Mothering Sunday Pat found her much softer,
And before Lent was over, he saw her relent.

The day was soon fixed—Easter Monday, be sure,
The time seem'd to Pat a snail's gallop to go;
"By de hokey!" says he, "is it fast days dey call 'em?
For fast days I tink dey move murtherous slow."

At length Easter Monday arrived bright and gay,
Saint Patrick's Day too—nothing could be more pat
To chapel away they all went—in a _buss_:
For a wedding, what carriage so proper as that?

So the knot was soon happily tied—tho' I know
There are some in the world think it wrong thus to tie men;
That the poor have no right to get married at all;
And that low men have no sort of bus'ness with Hymen.

Return'd, they sat down to an iligant feast:
An divil the knife or the fork that lies idle;
There's praties in plenty, pig-puddings, and pork,
And a saddle of mutton, to match with the bridal.

And then comes the dance, and the drink, and the toast:
"Pat Murrough, your health—you're a broth of a b'y"
Och! how tipsy they were! e'en the clargy himself,
Like Pity, was seen with a drop in his eye.

Then in comes Mick Larry, Pat Murrough's old rival,
With a lot of his friends from Sev'n Dials direct;
And och! what a scrimmige and murther intirely!
And then the police comes, the peace to protect.

Then straight to the beak Paddy Murrough is taken:
Mick Larry himself 'tis appears against Pat;
Says the beak, "You're with bigamy charged, Paddy Murrough!"
"Och, big'my! 'tis little I know sure of that!"

"What is it, your wurtchip?" says Paddy.—Says he,
"'Tis a serious offence 'gainst the laws of the nation—
To marry two wives, which is bigamy call'd—
And the punishment death—or, at least, transportation.

"So take leave of your spouses, for I must commit you!"
"Stop a minnit, my jewel!" says Paddy, says he:
"Sure I know'd very well what your wurtchip has tould me;
And so, to be safe, I got married to three!"

APRIL [1838

THE DARBY DAY.

Come, Bet, my pet, and Sal, my pal, a buss, and then farewell— And Ned, the primest ruffling cove that ever nail'd a swell— To share the swag, or chaff the gab, we'll never meet again, The hulks is now my bowsing crib, the hold my dossing ken. Don't nab the bib, my Bet, this chance must happen soon or later, For certain sure it is that transportation comes by natur; His lordship's self, upon the bench, so downie his white wig in, Might sail with me, if friends had he to bring him up to priggin; And is it not unkimmon fly in them as rules the nation, To make us end, with Botany, our public edication? But Sal, so kind, be sure you mind the beaks don't catch you tripping, You'll find it hard to be for shopping sent on board the shipping: So tip your mauns afore we parts, don't blear your eyes and nose, Another grip, my jolly hearts—here's luck, and off we goes!

SETTLING FOR THE HOAX.

3 LOW SUNDAY. "_Facile est descensus_—"

8 Sir R. Peel resigned, 1835.

To all the virtues of exalted station,
He adds the greater one of resignation.

15 Clock with Sun.

_Caution._—Never undertake to get a lady's watch repaired, or you
will be held responsible for its defects ever after.

24 Geological Society instituted, 1826.

Kind friends in need are they who make no bones,
When paupers ask for bread, to give them stones.

APRIL.——_Low_ Sunday.
]

ODE TO SIR ANDREW AGNEW:
AND ALL WHOM IT MAY CONCERN.

Sir Andrew Agnew, oh! thou scourge of sinners,
Thou legislator against vice
And nice
Hot Sunday dinners!
What shall we do
Now thou art gone—thou and Sir Oswald[3] too—
To make men fast and pray
Each seventh day?
Who now shall save us from sin's burning embers?
Now that we've lost our two old _Marrowbone_ members?
But seriously, Sir Andrew, do you think
There's so much harm in meat and drink?
That a hot steak
Ate once a week
Shows a depraved state of society?
That frizzled bacon
Argues a soul mistaken?
And—pray don't start!—
That devil'd kidneys show a dev'lish heart?
That there is irreligion in hot fry?
And that cold pie alone is pie-ty?
If so, begin, Sir, with the rich: ask these
To give up their ragouts, and stews, and fricassees.
I guess they'd think your application rather strange;
But if you _will_ work out your Bill,
Believe me, you must take a wider kitchen range.
Then, Sir, you think it wrong
In 'bus or cab to ride along
The streets,
Intent on rural treats
At Hampstead, Islington, or Turnham Green;
But have you never seen
The crowd
Of knights and dames, on palfreys fierce and proud,
That fill
Hyde Park o' Sundays? I don't wish to tease,
But, Sir, for riders such as these,
There ought, I think, to be a rider to your Bill.
No doubt it's very wrong, and shows but little _nous_,
To go a tea-drinking, and making merry
At th' _Eagle_, _Rosemary Branch_, or _Yorkshire Stingo_;—
_Chalk Farm's_ as vile, by jingo!
There's something very black about _White Conduit House_.
Richmond is sad;
And Twickenham's as bad:
And Hampton Wick is very wicked—very.
But, Sir,—excuse the freedom of my pen—
D'ye think that they
Who spend the day
At Tattersall's, in laying wagers
On Derbys, Oaks, and Legers,
Are _better_ men?
And then, the Clubs!—where gambling of all kinds,
And vices such as daylight never saw,
Are carried on behind cast-metal blinds—
For these, Sir, can't you frame some new Club Law?
Then, Sir, I know
You vote rat-killing low;
And wouldn't sit
For worlds in the Westminster Pit.
And so no doubt it is—extremely shocking;
But so is cocking!
And I have known full many a _noble_ lord
(I have, upon my word,)
Fight cocks upon this day:
So pray,
Before for us poor folks you legislate,
Just try to quell this main-ia in the great.
Then music drives you mad:
And, Scotchman tho' you be,
I know
You wouldn't suffer even a Scotch fiddle;
And, as for "down the middle,"
And such-like tricks of Dame Terpsichore,
I've often heard you say they're quite as bad:
And that all persons merit a sound whipping
Who are found tripping.
(_Àpropos_—
How you'd be shock'd in France,
To see, Sir, a whole country dance!)
Mind! I don't say but that all this is wrong:
But is it worse, Sir, than the Sunday song
Of Grisi, Albertazzi, Betts, Rubini,
Lablache, or Tamburini?
And would it not be better first to wipe out
This sin among the high and mighty of the State,
Before you put the poor man's pipe out?
For my part, I think _Vivi tu_
As wicked as _All round my hat_—don't you?
And really I don't know
How you can stop _Jim Crow_,
And let the rich
Carry their concerts, Sir, to such a concert pitch.
And, if, Sir, I may speak
My mind, your plan to gag our week
(Tho' done, perhaps, with very best intention)
Is but a _weak_ invention.
Besides, Sir, here's a poser,—
At least to _me_ it seems a closer,
And shows a shocking lack of legislative skill—
If nothing, Sir, 's to work from Saturdays to Mondays,
Pray how's your Bill
To work on Sundays?

Footnote 3:

Sir O. Moseley, who lost his election, they say, from having seconded
Sir Andrews' Sunday Bill.

MAY,—"All a growing!"
]

MAY [1838

BOWING AND HARROWING.

[Sidenote: MAY
the grand
Coronation
give joy
to the
Nation!
☿ ☊ ♏
MAY
the
QUEEN
live
for ever!
huzza!
♑ ♌ △
MAY
Tories
and
Whigs
run
no more
of their
rigs!
♈ ♍ ☊
and
John Bull
have
less taxes
to pay!]

Oh! the Archers of Frogshot assemble to-day,
And the fame of their doings has spread a great way;
In lacings and facings they're beaten by no men,
They've plenty of Beaux there, but very few Bow-men.
There are Misses to hit, who no longer will tarry,
And many Maid Mari-ans willing to marry;
There's a Robin Hood fierce with nobody to fear him,
And Tell shoots the apple of eyes that come near him;
There are Foresters, famous for eating a dinner,
And prizes, all sizes, but wanting a winner,
And Dames in a pet if they get their pet-dog shot;
And these are the deeds of the Archers of Frogshot.

13 Edmund Kean d. 1833.

AMATEUR THEATRICALS.

Behold the beardless _Flat_, a fancied _Kean_;
The mawkish maid a stilted heroine;
Tailors, retailers, spread dismay around,
Heroes, by "=This Endenture=," basely bound,
Braving the Chamberlain's portentous frown,
Wield the baton, or mount the paper crown;
Renounce their civic fetters for a throne;
For _horses_ barter _kingdoms_ not their own;
And find too late,—too soon, perhaps, by far,—
The stage a half-way step from bench to _bar_.
That Queen, in satin train, was trained in camlet,
And he carves Ham who nightly cuts up Hamlet;
The frail Jane Shore perchance is no impostor;
While Gloster's Duke by day serves double Gloster;
And 'tis but heaping Pelion on Ossa,
If Ross, the barber, shines as Barbarossa.
Then cheer up, Covent Garden! courage, Drury!
Misfortune's storms in vain may vent their fury,
When counter, kitchen, garret, bench, and stall,
Send forth such champions to avert your fall.

31 Joe Grimaldi d. 1836.

Farewell, transcendant Joe!
Thou mirth-inspiring wight!
Who, tho' thou wert so Grim-all-day,
Yet mad'st us laugh at night.

JOHN BUDD AND SUKEY SIMS.

Susanna Sims was under nurse
To little Messieurs Cole;
And John Budd was a gardener,
That lived at Camber_woll_.
And John would often say to Sue,
"We're for each other made:
For vy—ain't I a nursery-man,
And you a nursery-maid?"

He said she was his pink, his rose,
His _Clarkia Grandiflora_:
And swore no love had ever root
Like to the love he bore her.
Yet still, whenever he talk'd thus,
She look at him quite gruff,
And "Come now, Mister Budd," she'd say,
"None of your garden stuff!"

And every year, as spring came round,
With flow'rs of every hue,
He'd cull the fairest of them all,
And carry them to Sue.
But all in vain for him to bring
The sweetest buds of May;
For cruel Susan still turned up
Her nose at his nosegay.

Vainly in search of blossoms rare
He wandered to and fro:
She spurn'd them all; and every bloom
To him was a fresh blow.
And when he'd boast his pretty birds,
Their songs and merry freaks,
She'd say, "John Budd, I doesn't care
A twopence for the beaks."

The fact was this, _another_ swain
Had won fair Susan's heart—
The fancy-bread man, Sammy Twist—
For him she felt love's smart.
And still, while "Oh! 'tis love, 'tis love!"
Was running in John's head,
Susanna Sims would sing, "Oh! tell
Me where is _fancy bread_?"

No doubt it was a puzzling state
To be in—that of Sue:
The baker's man was very poor,
John Budd was well to do.
One hour she'd say, "I'll marry Sam;"
Another, "No, I wont."
Poor Susan Sims! Love whisper'd "_Dough_:"
But Interest said "Don't."

At last Sue quite made up her mind
In favour of the baker;
And sent him word to say that he
Might come next day and take her.
Away they stole at early dawn:
"And now, my pretty puss,"
Says he, "we'll have a cab." Says she,
"No; I prefers a buss."

They get in one of Shillibeer's,
And rode along Fleet Street,
(So call'd, I am told, because in it
You never _can_ go fleet,)
When "Crikey! here's a pretty start!
Vere _are_ you going, miss,
Vith that ere married man?" sang out
The tiger of the 'bus.

Then Susan gave a shriek, and fell
Just like a piece of lumber;
And Sammy blew the tiger up,
And swore he'd take his number.
And then Sue open'd half an eye,
And cried, in accents crack'd,
"Oh, Sam! how could you guilty be
Of such a marriage act?"

Then Sammy for the Doctor ran—
At least he told 'em so.
He went: but as for coming back,
Alas! it was "no go."
And when at last poor Sue got home,
As pale as any lily,
She found a letter from John Budd:
And thus ran Johnny's billy:—

"I seed you get into the 'bus,
To be another's wife:
And so resolved to go and end
My wegetable life.
I've tuk an ounce of pois'nous stuff;
And when these lines you see,
Dear Susan, I shall be no more—
Alas!—

Your humble B—."

JUNE [1838

THE MARTYRDOM OF ST. PAUL'S.

Oh, Charity! celestial _dame_!—I cannot call thee _maid_,
While ev'ry year thy children clear make such a grand parade.
Ah! 'tis a glorious sight to see thy little pauper brats
Parade the streets of _Baby_lon like demi-drowned rats.
Before the sun's begun to run, they're startled from their nest,
And by their anxious mothers in the parish fin'ry dressed;
And how those mothers' hearts must leap with gratitude to see
Their offspring all so nicely clothed in that smart livery!
The girls all clad in worsted gowns, mob caps, and aprons white,
Like Lilliputian grandmothers,—a venerable sight:
The boys in pretty blanket coats of green or brick-dust red,
With tawny leather breeches, and a thrum cap on their head;
And then that splendid pewter badge, worth all the rest beside;
No medal worn by hero could inspire more honest pride.
While to the neighbours they're a mark of pleasant observation,
How must their happy mothers bless a parish education!
It is so very handy too, when in a crowd they're brawling,
To pick them out so easily, and save a world of bawling.

Oh! merry day of jubilee to every little sinner,
When ev'ry one receives a bun and goes without a dinner.
Ah, happy England! thou'rt indeed a charitable nation,
Thy charities thou dost without the slightest ostentation;
How proud it makes a Briton feel to view this glorious sight,
Tho' some there are too dull to share the exquisite delight.
I heard a surly cynic once thus vent his angry spleen,
As he with jaundic'd eye beheld the animated scene:—
"If this be Christian Charity, who loves abroad to roam,
"I wish, instead of coming here, that she had stay'd at home.
"I'm sure she has no feeling for those wretched little dears,
"Or she'd not make them into jam all in that place of _tiers_.
"Whate'er Sir Robert Peel may say, or Tory folks may shout,
"I'm sure the 'pressure' from within is worse than that 'without.'
"But little girls may swoon away, and little boys may bawl,
"None, in this age of intellect, now care for a _child's call_.
"The cannibals, who eat up folks, have always made a point
"To kill their two legg'd animals before they dress'd a joint;
"But Christian anthropophagites possess a nicer goût,
"And cook their flesh alive whene'er they make a human stew."
Thus did he snarl and grumble at this glorious institution;
Some enemy he must have been to Britain's constitution,
For he who'd seek to work a change by pleading for humanity,
Must either be disloyal or the victim of insanity.

JUNE.—"The Queen's Own."
]

PROCLAMATION DAY.

Hip! hip! hurrah!
What a glorious day!
They're proclaiming the Queen—
Magnificent scene!
Look—there sits the Mayor!
That's his worship, I'll swear.
The bells are clanging;
The cannons are banging;
The big drums are playing;
The trumpets are braying;
The cymbals are ringing;
The people are singing,
"Victoria victorious,
Happy and glorious.
Long-to-reign-orious."
The Guards are advancing,
Kicking and prancing.
First the videttes
On their chargers—such pets!
Then comes the horse-doctor,
As grave as a proctor:
Then four pioneers,
With their axes—such dears!
And as sharp, ay, as needles.
And then come the beadles
(Messieurs Tomkins and Startin)
Of St. James and St. Martin.
After them the Guards' band,
So fierce and so grand.
The Marshals march next,
With their tits much perplex'd.
Then the Sergeants-at-Arms,
Looking full of alarms;
And the Heralds, whose dresses
Get in terrible messes.
Her Majesty's Garter
Comes figuring _arter_,
With his splendid gold tabard,
And sword in his scabbard;
And behind him is sergeants,
Who to-day think they _are_ gents.
While the Horse-guards appear
To bring up the rear.
But let's change the scene a bit;
And look at the Queen a bit,
Giving audience to all,
Great, middling, and small.
Among the paraders
Are the royalty traders:
Her Majesty's hatter,
Gunsmith, and cravatter,
Royal builders of britchkas,
Brutus wigs, and false whiskers.
The Queen's top-boot maker,
And her "own undertaker,"
Who says, with much fervour,
He'll be "happy to serve her."
Then at night, what a sight,
When the lamps are a-light,
Green, red, blue, and white;
And transparencies bright
Shine from attic to floor—
There's a thousand or more.
In every street
Blazing lions you meet;
And, in letters of flame,
VICTORIA'S dear name.
But see! there's a row
In the Poultry, I vow!
The windows are smashing,
The shutters go dash in:
The mob's in a rage
With poor Mister Page;
Whose luminous star,
With a "W. R."
Has excited their wonder,
And raised all this thunder.
See! Page now, in tears,
At the window appears;
And, with uplifted hands,
Their pleasure demands.
"Shame! radical! traitor!
Wretch! spy! agitator!"
Are the sounds that arise:
And at last some one cries,
"What means 'W. R.'
A-top of your star?"
"Lawk! is that all?" cries Page,
Almost bursting with rage,
"Why, confound your necks!
It's 'WICTORIA REX!'"

JULY.—Flying Showers.
]

JULY [1838

RAIL-ROAD TRAVELLING.

I vow I'll go, and it shall be so, and I've said it, Mister Snip,— This very day, come what come may, I'll have my railway trip. There's Mistress King has been to Tring, and thinks herself so knowing— I'm tired of waiting your debating, and it's time that we were going.

Well, Duck, though I never did dabble in foreign parts,—Law, Ma! how I shall squeal when the engine starts.——For shame, child! as to fear it's nothing but a notion;—I declare I always feel the better for a little motion.——Pray, mister, do you call this a first-class carriage because it goes double fast?—No, ma'am, it's because we puts it behind, to be blow'd up last.——See, they're pulling us along with a rope! very odd, upon my word.—Vy, you carnt expect the hingins to go on their own ac-cord.——But just look round at Hampstead and Highgate, while they slacken their pace,—And see, they hook on the loco-motive! What's that, Pa? A thing they've a motive for hooking on at this place.——Here's Chalk Farm, where some run down a hill, and some run up a score!—And there's the famous tunnel! It looks like a bit of a bore.——Oh, dear! Oh, dear! how dreadful dark! I think I'm going to die,—And I'm so hot I can't say my prayers! but here's the light of the sky.——See what a hole in my parasole, burnt by a red-hot spark!—I only wish I knew who it was that was kissing me in the dark.——Sare! I vonder, Sare! ven dey vill put on de horses to draw!—Oh! horses don't draw here; they're all _hors d'emploi_.——But how the hedges run past, and the trees and the bridges, and the posts, and the cattle, and the people!—This is just like ploughing the air! Yes, and there goes Harrow Steeple.——On, on we spin, with a clack and a din, like a mighty courser snorting, blowing.—Well, how do you like the railroad now? Oh! I think it's the wonderful'st thing that's going.——Ladies, here's Watford; we can stop if you've had enough of your ride.—But perhaps you'd rather go on; there's a long tunnel on the other side.——Oh! I'm so frighted at the thought I can scarcely speak!—Gracious! I'm so delighted! I hope we shall stay in for a week.——Well, if that's the case, as you came out for a little pleasure, I shall leave you at the tunnel, and you can go through at your leisure.

20 Professor Playfair d. 1819.

Thimble-rig Jubilee.

28 Infernal Machine in France, 1835.

Ditto ditto in England ☞

THAT MISTER NUBIBUS.

Reader, _my_ name's Nubibus. I am "that Romeo." My ruling passion is a taste for the rurals. My love of green fields may be almost termed a green sickness. You may talk of your ottomans and your fauteuils, _I_ never sit so easy as in a rustic chair. But, unhappily, my pleasure is not without a damper. The rain is my most mortal foe: my skies are always cloudy: my trees are continually on the drip: my Pan is always a Watering Pan. At the moment of my birth, even, it was observed that the watchman was going his rounds and crying, "Past four o'clock, and a rainy morning:" and many of my best friends think it likely that my last days will be accompanied by a drop.

Last Friday was a notable instance of my unluck. The morning was most beautiful—sun shining, birds singing, weather-glass down at _Stormy_, and Moore's Almanack at _Heavy Rain_—everything, in short, promised a fine day; and I immediately dressed myself in my most summery attire, and set off to join Mrs. Timon Duggins's pic-nic party to Battersea Fields. I found all the company already assembled in her little parlour, in Greek Street, Soho, and I could hear them greet my arrival with, "Oh! here's _that_ Mr. Nubibus! we're sure to have rain if he comes." However, I took no notice of their impertinences, but calmly brushed the dust off my gossamer pumps, to show that I had no fear on my own account: tho', sooth to say, I had taken care not to come without my old friend, my walking-stick umbrella. Well, off we set, took boat at Hungerford Stairs, and reached our place of destination without misadventure. Miss Arabella Dix was the first lady to land, which she did by stepping into a squashy place among the rushes, from which she came out with an abundant supply of mud and water, and not without an angry look at me, as much as to say, "Ay, it's all thro' _that_ Mr. Nubibus!" But this was not the worst. Gallantry forbade that Miss Arabella should remain in her unfortunate dampness while there were so many dry gentlemen in company: and, as it unluckily turned out that mine was the only small foot of the party, I was obliged to give up my dry pumps to Miss Arabella; tho' I own it went to my very _sole_ to do so.

"Oh! how I _do_ love the country!" exclaimed Miss Arabella, as soon as she had established herself in my dry shoes; "the sky, the water, the trees, how delightful!" I felt as if I could have hugged her. My taste to a T.

"And there! there's a spectacle! that lovely _rainbow_!" I felt as if I could have committed homicide upon the provoking creature, and clenched my walking-stick umbrella with the force of a maniac. On came the rainbow; clap went the thunder; down poured the rain—cats and dogs, puppies and _kitlings_. All eyes were turned upon me reproachfully. Up went umbrellas and parasols; out came cloaks and Mackintoshes. An air of triumph seemed to pervade the company as they remarked that there were no means of shelter left for me. I let them enjoy their triumph for a while, and then I quietly unscrewed the top of my walking-stick umbrella. My walking-stick umbrella, did I say? Alas! I had brought my bamboo telescope instead.

Young Ariel Hicks, a young gentleman of fifteen years of age, and as many stones weight, now offered me a share of his parapluie; but, as Hicks was only four feet two inches in height, and I stood five feet ten in my shoes (or rather, in Miss Arabella's), I was soon tired of doing penance in the form of a letter S, and boldly declared my utter contempt for all kinds of showers, and thunder-showers in particular. What made our situation still more provoking, was the presence of an opposition pic-nic party in the adjoining field, cosily enjoying themselves under a waterproof tent, from the entrance of which a grinning face would every now and then peep out, evidently in high glee at our miserable appearance. The weather getting clear, it was proposed to have a ramble among the green trees: but the Dryads and Hamadryads turning out to be anything but what their name imported, we were glad to escape from their dripping bowers with all possible speed. Hungry as wolves, and shivering with cold, we now addressed ourselves to Mrs. Timon Duggins, who had undertaken to be purveyor to the whole party. Mrs. Timon Duggins was as hungry as we. But where was "Mr. Gunterses young man?—Mr. Gunterses young man, that she (Mrs. D.) had ordered to be on the ground punctually at two o'clock?" Echo, and several of the young ladies and gentlemen answered "Where?" But still Mr. Gunter's young man appeared not. At last Mrs. Timon Duggins, employing one end of her spectacles as an eye-glass, exclaimed, "Why, there he is!" and there, sure enough, we saw him, standing with his baskets on his arm, watching the departure of the rival party, who were merrily sailing down the river to the tune of the Canadian Boat Song, sung by the whole strength of the company. The young jackal was soon summoned, and bid to spread the repast: but what was our horror on learning that he had mistaken the rival party for ours, and suffered them to eat up all our provisions. Half dead with cold and hunger, we turned the baskets inside out: but nothing was left except a few ices and a bottle or two of ginger-beer!

By great good fortune one of the Twickenham steamers was just then going by, and as Ariel Hicks, who was an amateur sailor, had some acquaintance with the skipper, he succeeded in procuring us some prog from the vessel. We had scarcely got our knives and forks well fixed in it, however, when the rain again began to fall in torrents, and we were glad to get away to our boats and Mackintoshes. Our voyage home was not less disastrous. The boat had been filled to about ankle deep by the late heavy rains, and we were obliged to sit all the way with our feet held up above high-water mark—except those who thought proper to put them in the wet _by way of relief_.

The next morning there was but one answer to all inquiries—"Our compliments, and we're very ill in bed of colds and rheumatisms; and it's all owing to _that_ Mister Nubibus."

AUGUST [1838

CHEAP BATHING

[Sidenote: Now the Dog Days have begun, ten times hotter is the Sun. If,
in walking Regent Street, crowds of puppies you should meet,
do not kick the harm- less things, but recollect what
Shakspeare sings, recollect the ancient say, every dog shall
have his day.]

I scorn the rules of Fashion's fools, their scoffings and their sneers, To the ocean spray I haste away from people and from piers. I love to ride in the flowing tide 'mid the summer's gentle gales, And to seem the monarch of the sea, or at least the Prince of Whales. Like porpoise brave, in the briny wave, I flounder and I flirt, And now I stand upon the land—Oh, murder! where's my shirt? Yes, there it goes, and all my clothes—stay, sacrilegious wretches! Take coat and hat, and black cravat, but give me back my breeches! This is the spite of Mistress White—the foulest in the Nation— Because I scouted her machine; it is her machination. But, hark! I hear, there's some one near—in vain I hope to hide; They'll say I'm not a tidy man, for going in the tide. Oh! dire disgrace! I'll screen my face behind this fisher's basket, And those who do not know my name, I hope wont stop to ask it!

16 Andrew Marvel d. 1678. No wonder.

Joe Miller d. 1738. No joke.

18 Rebel Lords beheaded, 1746.

Treason doth never prosper—what's the reason?
Why, when it prospers, none dare call it treason.

22 Gall d. 1828.

Never suffer a phrenologist to pass judgment on your head, or,
ten to one, you may hear something unpleasant.

No occasion to move.
]

A move on occasion.
]

Pray, Ma'am, can you move ever such a little scrinch? Indeed, Marm, its quite unpossable for me to stir an inch.—Well, if I'd stay'd at Dorking I should have sat more at my ease, but I thought it best to leave such a nest, for we're all swarming alive with fleas.—Then I'll take my leave, Marm, to shift a little further from where you are sittin', for though I don't like to be crushed, I don't choose to be bitten.

AUGUST.—"Sic Omnes."
]

PLEASURING.

_Miss Henrietta Julia Wiggins, on her Travels, to Miss Adelaide
Theresa Ditto, in Bucklersbury. With a short Postscript from
Mamma, and another from Papa._

"_Ma chère Sœur_—According to promise, I now send you the journal of my tour; but, _hélas!_ if you expect it has been a happy one, you _trompez_ yourself most sadly. _Mon dieu!_ the sufferings we have undergone! _Mais voilà_ the journal.

"MONDAY, SEPT. 1.—Embarked on board the "Emerald" steamer at London Bridge for Boulogne, at one o'clock in the morning, after having passed a miserable night in packing up, and trying to go to sleep in easy chairs. Pa complaining of symptoms of lumbago.—All the berths taken, mostly by gentlemen—or rather, by monsters in the form of gentlemen. _Mon dieu!_ what brutes the English men are! to suffer us poor helpless _femelles_ to pass the night on deck, while they are snoring away comfortably in the cabins! Ma's blue silk pelisse was soon put _hors de combat_ by the nasty tar and stuff, and my new French-white bonnet was turned into a regular London smoke in ten minutes by the horrid chimney.—Ma has made the acquaintance of a very nice _Dame Française_, who speaks pretty good English, and abounds in anecdotes about _la grande nation_. Also, has kindly taken charge of one of Ma's _sacs de nuit_; as she says the French _douaniers_ won't allow people to land more than one carpet-bag a-piece, and Ma not choosing to leave her valuables at the mercy of those _vilains bêtes_, the custom-house officers. _Moi aussi, j'ai fait connaissance_ with a charming fellow, the _Marquís de Mandeville_, a young _militaire_, in black moustaches and a green foraging cap.—Marquis beginning to make himself very agreeable; in fact, becoming quite _amoureux_, when both taken suddenly ill, and obliged to part. Ah! Adelaide dear! it's a sad change, from love-sick to sea-sick! French lady very kind, and asked me if I had the _mal de mere_—thought she meant "my mother's complaint," which you know is rheumatism in the hips—answered accordingly, and got horribly laughed at by a lot of rude fellows in make-believe sailors' jackets.—Ma next attacked—Pa next—_tout le monde_ soon in the same plight. Sensation dreadful—headache worse and worse—Ma wanted to be set down at Dover, but Captain wouldn't hear of it. French lady very attentive—_would_ fetch tumblers of brandy and water for Pa and Ma and me—couldn't drink a drop— _she_ did, and wasn't sick at all. Obliged to stop my journal—so very ill.

"TUESDAY, _Boulogne_—Landed here half dead, having lost the tide, and obliged to pass another night at sea. All very ill. Pa's lumbago confirmed, and Ma's rheumatism _très mal_.—Unable to go to Paris; and our places having been paid for all the way, obliged to forfeit the money; Pa very cross, Ma very uncomfortable. 5 O'CLOCK, P.M.—Pa has just been in to say that the French lady refuses to give up Ma's _sac de nuit_, containing all her valuables; and that, as it was landed in her name, there's no remedy.—A call from Marquis—advises us not to make a rumpus about it, for fear of being taken up as smugglers. His lordship's valet not being yet arrived, under the unpleasant necessity of borrowing five pounds of Pa. Pa very suspicious, until Marquis showed us his passport, where they have taken him two black eyes, a nose _aquilin_, black _cheveux_, and five feet three inches of _taille_. Only think, Adelaide dear! what a picture of a lover!

"WEDNESDAY.—Passed a dreadful night, not having been able to sleep a wink for the _punaises_. Ma bit all over, and her face as big as two. _Moi aussi_, my eyes completely swelled up, all but one little corner, just enough to see what a fright I am in the looking-glass. Unable to get any assistance from the people at the inn, our _manuel du voyageur_ not containing any dialogue between a chambermaid and a lady bitten by bugs; and Pauline, Ma's maid, that she hired by advertisement, having left us the moment we landed, her only motive in engaging herself at all being to get her passage paid back to her native country.—Can't get anything that we can eat at the inn, and reduced to sea biscuits and water. I have again tried to make our wants known to the _fille de chambre_, but without success, they _do_ speak such very bad French in the provinces—quite a _patois_, in fact. Hope we shall do better in Paris.—Marquis called, and recommended Pa to hire a _valet de place_. Kindly undertook to provide him one, who speaks French and English, and understands the horrible _patois_ of the Boulognese. This will take a good deal off my hands, who am obliged to be _interpreteur_ to the whole party.—_Alexis_, the new _valet de place_, arrives.—Got something eatable at last, and are to start for Paris _demain matin_.

"THURSDAY.—Up at five. _Déjeûner_, and start for Paris at seven—Marquis in same _diligence_. Weather dreadfully hot. Rival diligence got the start, and _will_ keep before us all day, the French laws not allowing one coach to pass another. Dust dreadful—and worse for us than any of the rest, as we had taken our seats in front of the _voiture_, for the sake of seeing the country—and, after all, no country to see. Proposed to some _gentilhommes_ inside to change places with Ma and me; but met with a flat refusal. Begin to think French gentlemen are not much more _poli_ than English ones.—Dined at Abbeville, and arrived at Amiens late at night, very tired and ill.

"FRIDAY.—Up at five, after a sleepless night. Started at seven. Heat _comme hier_—dust _ditto_: _two_ diligences before us.—Dined, or rather _table d'hôte'd_ (which is a very different thing) at Clermont. Didn't eat an ounce all three of us, but obliged to pay five francs a-piece for our dinners—and, as we had no francs left, the people kindly consented to take English shillings instead.—Ma and I quite ill, from heat, and dust, and fasting, and one thing or another; and Pa's lumbago much worse since the heavy thunderstorm which soaked thro' his waterproof hat, and ran off his Mackintosh into his shoes, till they were all of a squash.— Seeing our distress, three French gentlemen inside kindly consented to relinquish their seats in our favour, an offer which we gladly accepted. The French are really polite, _après tout!_—10 O'CLOCK, _à la nuit!_— Arrived in Paris at the _Hotel de Lyon_, the Marquis very politely handing us out, and seeing us to our room.—Rather annoyed by Pa's coming in and kicking up a rumpus about the gentlemen who had taken our paid places on the _première banquette_, and who had left him to pay for the three insides all the way from Boulogne.—Marquis very _aimable_, and gave us all a pressing invitation to pay him a visit at his _château_ in _La Vendée_.

"SATURDAY.—The Marquis to breakfast.—With his Lordship to the _Jardin des Plantes_, where we had no sooner arrived among the lions and tigers than it began to rain cats and dogs. The noble Marquis very kind in holding the umbrella over him and me, and sending Pa to call a coach at the neighbouring coach-stand. Pa _très long-tems_ away—at last saw him coming along in the custody of two _gend'armes_, covered with mud and dirt, and bleeding profusely. Learned that poor Pa, instead of calling '_cocher_,' as he ought to have done, had called the man '_cochon_,' which, you know, means 'pig;' at which the coachman at first laughed; but Pa persisting in calling him '_cochon_,' he at last got down in a rage, and attacked Pa most furiously. I am sorry to say, poor Pa got _terriblement maltraité_. Ma has been in fits ever since, and Pa won't be able to go out for weeks. _Pour moi_, I am as ill as any one can be— nothing but the Marquis's kindness keeps me alive...."

"P.S.—SUNDAY.—My dearest child! Your unhappy mother sends you this. Your deluded sister disappeared last night with the Marquis de Mandevil, leaving this unfinished letter on her table, and your Pa and me both heart-broken. I am too ill to write any more.

Your miserable mother,
BERTHA WIGGINS."

"P.S.—MONDAY.—Dear daughter! Your distressed father sends you this. Your unhappy mother eloped last night with that villain _Alexis_—and all the luggage. I have discovered that he and the Marquis are a couple of sharpers. A pretty week we have made of it!

Your wretched father,
BARTHOLOMEW WIGGINS."

COUNTRY COMMISSIONS.

"Mr. Hume moved for a list of all Commissions issued between the 1st
of April, 1833, and the 1st of April, 1837, and of the expenses
incurred thereon."

_Parliamentary Register._

Twenty times have I taken my pen,
And began my dear Julia's name,
Twenty times have I dropped it again,
For I'm burning all over with shame.

How lucky I am to possess
A kind friend to rely on, like you!
And—'tis shocking—I'm bound to confess
That my billets are all billets-_do_.

But to come to the point, dearest dear,—
Your affection will pardon it all—
You must know, the long thread of our year
Is wound up by an annual ball.

Only think! in this dismal abode
To have nothing that's stylish or new!
We are centuries out of the mode,
Though we live in _a manor_, 'tis true.

And I want a few trifles in haste;
'Tis too bad—for you've plenty to do—
But I know you've such excellent taste,
And I'll leave it entirely to you.

So get me, from Waterloo Place,
(What you pay I shall never regard)
Twenty yards of the best Brussels lace,
At exactly two guineas a yard.

From Harding's twelve yards of French satin,
That beautiful pearly-white hue—
'Tis a matter, I know, that you're pat in,
So I'll leave it entirely to you.

Of course, there can be no objection
To make it a bargain quite plain,
That if it don't suit my complexion
You'll trouble them with it again.

Five bouquets of roses from Foster's,
And a circlet of white Maraboût—
(I consider all others' impostors,
But I leave that entirely to you.)

_Un oiseau paradis_ may be sent
To surmount a _chapeau paille de riz_
For mamma—for she's never content—
How different, dear Julia, from me!

There is but one man in the town,
Who can make me a white satin shoe;
Do find him, and send me some down,
So I'll leave it entirely to you.

Oh! a scarf I shall want, by-the-bye,
Of that very particular hue
Which belongs to "the Seraph's blue eye,"
(In dear Moore,) so I leave it to you.

And now I'm equipped for my jig,
I'll finish my begging petition—
(Pa says I'm as bad as a Whig;
Such a dab to get up a commission.)

But I'll thank you to buy, for Miss Green
A nice little stone and a muller;
And just paper enough for a screen—
Every sheet of a different colour.

Here's a note for Miss White at the Tower;
You must take it some day before two,
For she always goes out at that hour,
So I leave it entirely to you.

If it's all in your way coming back,
Just call at the Grove, Kentish Town,
And look in at the school of young Black—
His mamma wants to know if he's grown.

And next summer, when Pa comes to town,
He shall pay you whatever is due,
If you'll send the particulars down;
But I'll leave that entirely to you.

SEPTEMBER.—Michaelmas Gander.
]

1830.] SEPTEMBER.

1 St. Giles. The faithful Scroggins lifted to the skies,
A _consternation_ in his Molly's eyes.

6. Stratford Jubilee, 1769.

"Mother! mother! take in the clothes: here be the players a-coming!"

THE HARVEST SUPPER.

The latest load from the field is come,
"Hip! Hip! Hip! for the Harvest Home!"
The guests they throng to the feast in swarms,
More men than manners, more chairs than forms;
And 'twould puzzle a lawyer here to point,
And prove that the times are _out of joint_.

I love fat _fowls_ in a bill of _fare_,
Yet this for ever I will declare,
That the dish, however it may be scorned,
For a harvest supper is beef that's corned.

I love a dame of the good old sort,
The piano not her only forte,
Her sons, who something know beside
To break a pointer, drink, and ride;
And daughters, who return from school,
To feed the pullets, not dance _la poule_.

There are some that gather, who do not grow,
And some that reap, who are but _sow-sow_,
But the honest farmer, blunt and plain,
Who has never learned to drink champagne
(Like some, or else I'm much mistaken,
Who pinch the poor to save their bacon),
May plenty crown his peaceful dome,
And "Hip! Hip! Hip! for his Harvest Home."

15 Newspaper Stamp Duty reduced, 1836.

Chancellor of the Exchequer brought to his last penny.

29 Michaelmas Day. De _Goostibus_ non est disputandum.

ÀPROPOS OF THE GOOSE.

"Dear Uncle, accept our best thanks
For your very nice Michaelmas treat;
Such a beautiful bird I ne'er saw,—
So tender! so young! and so sweet!
My wife and myself both declare,
Since we tied the hymeneal noose,
We never before clapp'd our eyes
On so fine—so delicious a goose!

"The brats are all well. Little Sam
Is a Solomon quite for his age:
Such a mimic! We've serious thoughts
Of bringing him up to the stage.
He already takes off you and aunt,
Her way of exclaiming "The dooce!"
He can imitate cocks, hens, and ducks,
_Àpropos_, many thanks for the goose.

"Our eldest we've christened at last,
After you and my uncles at York,—
John James Paul Ralph George Job Giles Mark:
And Eliza's beginning to talk.
Little Arthur has lost a front tooth,
And another is getting quite loose:
They both want to know when you'll come;
And thank you, dear Sir, for the goose.

"Little Hal's as like _you_ as two peas,—
So lively, so smart, and so jaunty!
And dear little Emily Ann
Is grown quite the moral of aunty.
Selina's translating in French
The voyage of Mister Pérouse;
And Amelia has knit you a purse;
And thank you, dear Sir, for the goose.

"Little Ellen's begun to _sol-fa_,
And her master, the Chevalier Bäûll,
Declares that he never yet heard
Child sing so exceedingly small.
Little Tom's quite a sportsman become;
He has caught a young hare in a noose,
And sends you the skin to have stuff'd:
And thank you, dear Sir, for the goose.

"Your godson's beginning to draw,—
You remember the rogue—little Mike?
He has chalk'd you and aunt on the wall;
And really they're laughably like.
Such spirits I never yet saw;
He's just like a tiger let loose:
And Sue means to work you a screen,
And thank you, dear Sir, for the goose.

"Your museum, I hope, goes on well:
But, Uncle, take care of your eyes;
And pray don't, with microscopes, look
So much at those very small flies.
I send you the horn of a deer,
(I believe it's a species of moose,)
And the quill of a real black swan;
And thank you, dear Sir, for the goose.

"I hope you ride out ev'ry day;
It's the first thing on earth for the health,
Without which, as I've oft heard you say,
What's honours, and station, and wealth?
But, dear Uncle, pray never more mount,
That wild thing you bought of Lord Roos:
But you are so exceedingly bold!
Did I thank you before for the goose?

"_P.S._—Could you lend me ten pounds
Till Christmas? My lease is just out,
And I've no one to fly to but you:
Dear Sir—By-the-bye, how's your gout?—
The int'rest of course I shall pay,
Five per cent.—Is your cough getting loose?—
You can send it per post—and, dear Nunks,
Many thanks for that duck of a goose."

OCTOBER. [1838

Messuages delivered.
]

1 London Parcels Delivery Comp. estab. 1837.

TRIUMPH OF TEE-TOTALISM.

DERE FRIND,