Chapter X: Part II (4)

Rest assured, my dear creatures, when you can say nothing good of any one, the best way is to keep your pretty mouths closed, and to say nothing at all. Talk any little innocent nonsense you like that is natural to you; but do not, for goodness sake, be satirical or ill-natured. Leave that to philanthropists.

Above all, don't flirt _too_ much: it's very dangerous, and may ruin your prospects in the world. For rely upon it, that though most men like flirts very well for an evening, they would hardly think of linking themselves to one for a lifetime.

Moreover, don't affect blueness, or music-madness, or any kind of literary or scientific mania: though if you must, for mercy sake, don't be silly enough to believe that you show your intellect by neglecting your dress or personal appearance. Philosophy and Polkas are very distinct things; so either throw up one or the other; for the song that says, "I must have lov'd thee hadst thou not been fair," is one of those fictions that Bunn and the other British Poets have been in the habit of getting set to music, and foisting on the public from time immemorial.

Now, adieu! and though I am quite aware that the main object of your lives is to make us the slaves of your charms, and then to render us miserable by marrying us (the bare idea sets us trembling), still we wish you success the most brilliant. May Park phaetons, opera-boxes, diamond suites, and even coronets and plain gold rings, be showered at your dear little feet; and, above all, may you be happy, whether your wedding-cards bear the address of Belgrave Square or Clapham Common.

Yours, ever Platonically,
ALBERT DE BERLINS.

THE BANQUET OF THE BLACK DOLLS

In commemoration of the Reduction of the Duty on Rags.
]

The Cooks of England offering up their Kitchen Stuff to their Black
Idol.
]

It shall have all the kitchen stuff—so it shall.
]

A Lover of Grease.
]

DE BLACK DOLLIBUS.

The Black Dolls of England are a highly comic race. They were the first to mingle the unctuous joke with the dry details of business, and to give a lightness to puffs before unknown to the paste of the Billsticker. They are the Smolletts of Posters, and the Fieldings of the Broad Sheet. Clare Market appears to be the grand centre of these right merrie marine store shops. Here a magazine of linen rags and witty conceits displays a thoroughly Gran-tian work of art, in which one cook is inquiring of another, who wears a chapeau in tremendously full flower, "My dear, where did you get that splendid new bonnet from?" to which the other replies, "Why, by carrying my bones and fat to the real original Black Doll, No. 12," &c. Another racy repository exhibits a grand transparency, representing a _tête-à-tête_ between the Black Doll and one of her fellow-countrymen, in which the dark gentleman, in a most unniggerly dialect, is made to ask, "Why, Dinah, do all the people come to Massa's shop?" and Dinah to reply, "Because Sambo, Massa gives the best price for all old-iron, linen rags, and kitchen stuff." Then there is the highly popular bellman, who is eternally crying, "Oh yes! Oh yes! WE (!) are now giving two-pence for three pounds of old bones," &c. And last of all, the exceedingly tempting inquiry, "Do you want a plum pudding?" of which dainty there is prefixed a splendidly coloured caricature, and for which one spirited rag merchant subjoins the following curious recipe:—

THE BLACK DOLL'S RECEIPT FOR A GOOD PLUM PUDDING.

Take 8lbs. of the best white linen rags, 4lbs. of broken flint glass, and 12 ditto of old bones; throw in a handful of old nails, with a few horses' shoes, and flat irons at discretion. Put these into a bag, and bring them to No. 12, &c., and you will find that it will make you a good family plum pudding; but if you wish to give it additional richness, you should add a few pounds of kitchen-stuff, and put a pound or two of candles into the grease pot.

The Real Ethiopian Serenaders or the first that extracted Notes (Bank)
from Bones.
]

THE HONOUR OF THE READER'S COMPANY IS REQUESTED TO
A DINNER PARTY.

The Dining Room's quite a sight! The Chairs have had their pinafores taken off for the occasion, and now stand out in all the glory of Morocco. The table, which in the morning was only a modest square, has by means of its telescope been stretched into an oblong. You can count the number of guests by the number of chairs, and before each seat stands a small cluster of wine glasses, of different shapes and colours, two plates, and a napkin folded into the form of a triangle, with a small sandball-looking French roll secreted within it. The salt has changed its colour—is pink, and looks flushed with excitement. The supernumerary silver has been taken from its catacomb of the plate chest, where it has been kept since the last grand dinner, shrouded in wash leather, and like an old Dowager has now been rouged into brightness.

At the Sideboard stands Kitson, the host, with a shiny soapy face, decanting the wine, and consequently in a bad humour. And the honest Coal and Potato Warehouseman, who "beats carpets and attends evening parties," is fortifying himself in the passage by swallowing all that is left at the bottom of the bottles, with a look of extreme disgust for all spirituous liquors; and Master Kitson is helping his Father with the Wine, and himself to the Almonds and Raisins, when the Governor is not looking. On one side stand half a dozen of generous Port, in rich coats of Cobweb, with their chalk fronts; and on the other, two or three bottles of that tall, stately-looking, silver-headed, dinner-party-drinking Champagne.

In the Drawing-room is Mrs. Kitson, in a dreadful state of mind, standing on a chair—on which she has spread her handkerchief, from the fear of soiling the damask of the cushion—groaning over the Ormolu Lamp, and trying to discover why it has been dripping on the yellow satin Ottoman beneath.

In the midst of this a hungry double knock comes at the door, and the hostess has just got time enough to snatch one of the showily-bound books, which are placed at regular distances round the drawing-room table, and arrange herself and her dress on the Sofa, with a look of deep interest, when the Coal and Potato Warehouseman announces the first small appetite in a voice that savours strongly of "Below." And in the said small appetite walks in a love of a dress that talks French as fast as it can rustle. The conversation takes a lively turn, first, as to the weather, and then as to the children of the two establishments, each fond mother trying to make out that "her dear Herbert" or "her dear Kitty" was more delicate than the other fond Mother's sweet offspring.

Now the hungry double knocks come quicker and stronger, and the plates and the glasses jingle a kind of chorus. The next-door neighbours keep running to the windows, and are quite sure there is something going on at the Kitson's, and feel highly indignant at people not treating their neighbours as themselves, and vow revenge at their next evening party. There is a small crowd of half a dozen errand-boys and nursery-maids in front of the house, who closely criticise the dress of each small appetite as it arrives.

The company now are only waiting for the family Doctor; and Mrs. K. begins to have dreadful visions of the haunch of Venison done to a cinder, and the Turbot about the consistency of curds and whey. Every now and then young Kitson comes into the room and whispers into his mother's ears, and receives a mysterious something, that sounds like keys. Kitson has got three or four of his old Cronies together, and is letting them into the secret of some miraculous quack pill, and how it has done him a world of good.

At length in walks the dilatory family Doctor, with a volume of splendid excuses, and, being a jocular man of the world, he easily obtains a pardon. Then comes a general move for the dinner-table, where Mrs. Kitson looks over a kind of Index of the Chairs, which she has on a card, and tells each party where he or she is to eat his or her dinner; by which contrivance she cleverly manages to place bashful gentlemen next to talkative ladies, and bashful ladies next to talkative gentlemen.

Then the family Doctor insists on Mrs. Kitson letting him help the Turbot, whereupon Kitson informs the whole table that he shall be jealous if the Doctor "goes on in that way," which being, of course, a good joke, causes the guests to giggle unanimously. Every now and then the Doctor does a witticism, whereat the Coal and Potato Warehouseman, who is of a facetious turn of mind, chuckles inwardly, and manages to lodge a slice of Venison or a cutlet in some lady's back hair. Now Kitson gives a mysterious nod, and immediately Champagne is handed round, and Master K. ventures on a glassful; on which his Father looks as black as gentility will allow him, and determines within himself not to allow Augustus to dine at table again until he knows how to behave himself.

On the removal of the cloth Mrs. Kitson's proud moment arrives. She has thrown the whole strength of the footman into the French polish, and her domestic reputation stands upon her tables. At the sight of them all her female friends fall into violent admiration, and, "How _do_ you do it; I can never get ours half as bright," &c., &c., bursts from every housewife. With the Dessert come the dear little Master and Miss K.'s, beautifully got up with bear's grease and pink sarsenet for the occasion, but looking rather pale from the effects of having dipped their tiny fingers into each dish as it left the Parlour (the Doctor is in doubt whether it arises from Bile, or a nasty Influenza that is flying about); and each of the ladies begs to have "the little pets" next to her.

Now the gentlemen begin tempting the ladies, by cutting oranges into the shapes of lilies and baskets, or cracking nuts for them. And so matters proceed, until Mrs. Kitson looks inquiringly at each lady, and each lady having smiled in answer, they all rise and make for the door, which two or three of the younger gentlemen rush to open. As soon as they have departed, the gentlemen draw near to the fire, and Kitson says, "Let us be comfortable," and puts on the table such wines as weak woman is unable to appreciate.

Then come Claret, Old Port, and Politics, and with the sixth bottle they begin discussing Moral Philosophy. Mrs. Kitson's health is at length proposed by the family Doctor, who speaks of her as "the exemplary wife— the tender mother—and the woman whom to know is to admire, ay! and he _would_ say—to love." And then Kitson wants words to express his feelings for the honour they have done him, and winds up his catalogue of Mrs. K.'s virtues with a tear. Now "the exemplary wife" upstairs gets nervous about her husband and the wine below, and sends the footman in every ten minutes to say that "Tea is ready." Suddenly the ladies commence singing, and the family Doctor, who lives but to please, proposes to join them.

As soon as the gentlemen have retired upstairs, Kitson, who remains below, carefully locks up the remnants of the fruit and wine, and reminds Master K. of that little affair of the Champagne, and trusts he may never have to speak to him on that subject again. Then the gentlemen upstairs ask each lady in turn to oblige them with a song, and after considerable difficulty, prevail upon Mrs. Kitson's unmarried sister to favour them with "Did you ne'er hear of Kate Kearney;" but unfortunately the nuts spoil the runs. And then the gentlemen begin to have a strong inclination for Sofas and forty winks, and will put their "nasty greasy heads" on the bright yellow satin damask cushions. And then the company grows very silent; so that Kitson, who can't get up his rubber, is not sorry when he hears the Coal and Potato Warehouseman announce the first carriage. Then comes the hunting for Cloaks, and the running for Cabs, and the giving generous shillings and very generous half-crowns to the Coal and Potato Warehouseman, who is very careful to be at the door as each party is leaving. At length they have all gone, and Kitson tells his better half to see the plate right, and retires to bed.

Next morning he is very surly all breakfast, and very late for business, and Mrs. K. speaks out about the quantity of wine that was drunk; and the family, much to the delight of the little K.'s, have the remainder of the jellies, and other good things, for dinner all the next week.

PEOPLE ONE MEETS IN SOCIETY.

No. 1.
THE YOUNG GENTLEMAN WHO HAS JUST GOT HIS COMMISSION.

Do you see that young man at the top of the quadrille, dancing with that pretty flaxen-haired girl? That's Arthur Bumpshus; he has just got his commission; though one might guess as much, for he's paying more attention to himself, as you perceive, than to his partner, and he holds his coat by both of the lapels, so as to keep it off his shoulders, while he puffs out his chest like a pouter pigeon. His hair too, you observe, is cut very short behind, and frizzed out at the sides, and stuck up at the top, with the true military effect; and whenever his partner speaks to him he looks down on the floor, and, inclining his head slightly on one side, listens with a haughty frown.

The quadrille is over, and now here he comes. Hark! he's talking to the flaxen-haired girl about Chatham, and the Provisional Battalion, and the Mess, larding his conversation with as many military technicalities as he can possibly cram into it, though, between you and me, he has not yet joined his regiment, and has dined only once—or twice at the outside—at Chatham. He says, too, that it's deuced unpleasant being bottled up in uniform this hot weather, though we know for a fact that his own regimentals are not yet finished, and that he means "to let out at the tailor above a bit" for disappointing him with his things for this evening. When however a friend asks him how it is that he does not appear _en militaire_, he replies, "Oh, when a man (rich that, for a boy of eighteen!) is forced to wear uniform he naturally prefers being in _Mufti_ whenever he can."

He walks across the room digging his heels down at every step with a ferocity intended to inspire all beholders with a high idea of his determination, and asks, when a person's name is mentioned, whether he's in "the Service;" and, on being told to the contrary, speaks of him ever afterwards as "a Civilian." And when the host's young nephew, who is home for the holidays, accidentally treads on the toe of Mr. Arthur Bumpshus's Patent Leather Boots, Mr. A. B. frowns in a way that makes the poor youth in the jacket tremble again in his pumps; for the young military gentleman is anxious to distinguish himself for his valour in the eyes of his friends.

He will not allow the engraver to have any peace until he sends home Mr. Arthur Bumpshus's cards, with the No. of his regiment printed upon them; and, when he gets them, Mr. A. B. goes the whole round of his acquaintance, and calls at the house of each of his friends at a time when he hopes they are in the park, so that he may have an opportunity of leaving them one of the bits of glazed pasteboard which announces that he has got his Commission.

He also pays a visit to Laurie, for the purpose of ordering his saddle; and hearing Major Splatterdash, of "the Heavies," swear at the saddler for something which is not quite to the Major's satisfaction, the young gentleman follows his brother-officer's example, and gets a not very gentle hint from the tradesman, that unless he can behave himself he had better leave the shop; for though Laurie may consider it worth his while to pocket an insult from a Major of ten years' standing, it does not exactly answer his purpose to do the like with a sucking ensign.

In short, the young military gentleman persists in making himself as obnoxious as possible to all people, with the view of impressing them with his importance, though he forgets that while he is endeavouring to play the Lion, the Ass's bray continually betrays him.

No. 2.
THE YACHTING MAN.

"Beg your pardon! hope I've not hurt you; but you were right in the gangway!" exclaims a light-haired, blue-coated specimen of humanity, as he enters the ball-room, and treads on the feet, and grinds the head of one of the guests against the door-post he fancies he is ornamenting; and then he rushes violently up to the lady of the house, and shakes her hand with a vehemence more cordial than "_comme-il-faut_;" and then, turning to the host, apologizes for being so late, declaring that he had carried away every stitch of canvas he could stagger under, and would have made the house half-an-hour before, but he'd had a capsize in a cab, and it took him some time to get under weigh again.

Then he mixes in the crowd, and on closer inspection, you perceive by the bright buttons on his blue coat, which have a crown and anchor and some inscription upon them, that he belongs to one of the Royal Yacht Clubs; while the same bright buttons with the same crown and anchor, &c., only a size smaller, adorning his white waistcoat, tell you that he is not ashamed of it.

From his conversation we are made acquainted with the important fact that there had been a match that day at Erith, and that his yacht must have won only his gaff-topsail was carried away in a squall; and we learn, moreover, that he fully sympathizes with Lord Freshwater, who would have come in a good second had not a Hatch Boat run right into his starboard-bow, and driven her bowsprit clean through his lordship's balloon-jib. And then he tells the listeners a remarkably funny story of a friend of his, who went for a cruise with him, and would persist in calling "going on deck" "going upstairs;" whereat the yachting man laughs immoderately, and takes care all the evening through to term "going downstairs," "going below."

He does not dance much, but whenever he does stand up for a Quadrille he talks very loud to his partner, saying, "Aye, aye," to all her questions; and he rushes to the refreshment-room with her directly the dance is over, where he does not restrict himself to negus and ices, but attacks the port wine at once.

During the supper he does not do much until the ladies have left, and then he falls to with surprising vigour, and calling the footman on one side, inquires whether there is any malt to be had. When the beer arrives he professes an intense contempt for champagne, and says that as far as he is concerned a glass of two-water grog is better than all the wine in the Docks, especially when one's on deck at night; all which causes the younger men of the party to look upon him as a very dashing sort of a fellow. And if by any chance he is asked for a song, he is sure to squall "I'm afloat," or "A Life on the Ocean Wave," though his knowledge of such a state of existence must be very limited, for he has seldom been beyond the Nore, and at farthest to Ramsgate,—excepting, by-the-by, once, when we believe he did get as far as the Isle of Wight, during the Cowes Regatta. Nevertheless, a life in his father's country-house would be more in character with his habits.

And when the party is breaking up the Yachting Man is seen in the Hall putting on a very rough Pea-Jacket, with large horn buttons, and a cap with a gold-lace band round it. He says something about it's being time to turn in, as four bells have gone; and having lit a cigar at the hall-lamp, he finally disappears, chanting—

"Good-night!—All's well."

A GOOD PENNY-WORTH.
]

THE
COMIC ALMANACK
FOR 1848.

A NEW OPENING FOR VALENTINES.

Valentines have hitherto been sentimental. This is a sad mistake in a matter-of-fact age, when Love may knock at a person's door long enough before he will be admitted, unless he comes handsomely dressed, and with his pockets full of money. The old conventional altar, with a couple of hearts on it pierced through with a skewer, which postmen leave at houses wrapped up in pink covers, on the 14th of February, is but sorry fare for young ladies who have been educated upon a hot luncheon every day, and who would sooner have a basin of turtle than the prettiest pair of pigeons that were ever served up with pink ribbon on the best satin paper! Lovers forget that we are a nation of shopkeepers, and should play their counters accordingly. How much better, instead of sending an immense tulip with a gentleman sitting inside of it, it would be to forward a small view of their fortune, drawn out in gold and silver on their banker's cheque-book! Ladies might not take the trouble to look under the paper rose, which when pulled out discloses the portrait of a spooney Adonis, in a blue coat and black moustachios; but a sketch of what the same "Spooney" intended to do, when married, in the way of a carriage or an opera-box, would be a puzzle which every young lady could but be deeply interested in finding out. Beauty is completely a matter of taste; but a good establishment, with unlimited millinery, powdered footman, violets all the year round, and subscription to the French plays, is a simple thing which no two mammas could possibly dispute about, and which every well-regulated daughter must appreciate at the very first glance. In fact, the more such a Valentine was looked at, the more it would be admired. The question nowadays is not, whether you are handsome—that concerns your looking-glass only—but whether your fortune has a handsome figure. Hymen has gone completely into the commercial line; and the closer Valentines resemble advertisements, the easier young gentlemen who offer themselves at a "tremendous sacrifice," will find themselves go off. Cupid has turned butcher-boy, and it is wonderful how he has enlarged his business since he has taken to serving his customers with something richer than a couple of sheep's hearts every day for dinner! For further inquiries, the young lady is referred to the plate opposite.

SOMETHING LIKE A VALENTINE.
]

PROBLEMS VERY EASY OF SOLUTION.

Given—A haunch, of venison.
To Find—Currant jelly, and six persons to eat it.<br>

Given—A pound to Joseph Ady.
To Find—Something to your advantage.<br>

Given—A flat contradiction.
To Find—A wife in hysterics.

REVERSING THE OLD PROVERB—THE MOUNTAIN DOES GO TO MAHOMET.
]

PROBLEMS RATHER DIFFICULT OF SOLUTION.

Given—18,000,000_l._ to Ireland. To Find—An Irishman who is the least thankful for it.<br>

Given—A bottle of British brandy. To Find—A gentleman to drink it.<br>

Given—The legal fare. To Find—A cabman who is satisfied with it.<br>

Given—A wife and twelve children. To Find—The man who is contented with his lot.<br>

Given—A good flogging. To Find—A schoolmaster who doesn't say "it hurts him a great deal more" than the boy he is flogging.

Given—Advice. To Find—A man to act upon it.<br>

Given—One hundred philanthropists. To Find—Anything they have given.<br>

Given—A dog, a cat, and a mother-in-law. To Find—The house that is not too hot to hold them.<br>

Given—Several cooks on board wages. To Find—Any tea and sugar left in your tea-caddy.<br>

Given—A railway accident. To Find—The person whose fault it was.

THE MOST DIFFICULT PROBLEM OF ALL.

Given—The "Comic Almanack."
To Find—A bad joke in it.

THE STOCK MARKET.

_Old Gentleman._—Oh! my boy, you have called for the paper, have you? Well, I suppose you read everything—know of course all the news. I shouldn't be at all surprised now that you can tell me the price of stocks?

_Newspaper Boy (very quickly)._—Two bunches a penny, sir.

FULL MOURNING AND HALF MOURNING.

In this age of costumes, when everybody cries out for a particular dress, from a Puseyite to a charity boy, we think the poor shopmen in the Mourning Depôts have been shabbily overlooked. The Half Mourning Gentlemen should be dressed in the style of the old pictures seen in Wardour Street, one half black, the other white. And the Full Mourning Gentlemen, who have to wait on disconsolate widows, and offer them a choice of weeds, should be black from head to foot, and that effect not produced by art but by the hand of nature. No Ethiopian artificiality, but a real Nigger reality.

* * * * *

NEW YEAR'S DAY.—Now kill your dragon, for the friendly game of snap, and hire your blind-man, only take care he is a good buffer. Now get your needle ready for the purpose of threading, and hunt everywhere for a slipper, only if there is a wood pavement in the neighbourhood, you need not go far to pick up one. Now riddle your company well with conundrums, and bore them with acting charades, till every one is tired of the fun, and fairly gives it up.

* * * * *

THE HEIGHT OF COWARDICE.—Kicking a man with a wooden leg.

ODE ON ST. CECILIA'S DAY.
[A LONG WAY AFTER POPE.]

LUMLEY'S TRUMP CARD
]

NOTES OF THE SWEDISH NIGHTINGALE.
]

Descend, great Bunn!—descend and bring
A furnace of poetic fire;
Nib fifty pens, and take your fling,
Boldly of foolscap fill a quire.
In a namby-pamby strain,
Let the tenor first complain;
Let the falsetto sound,
With nasal twang around,
Till in applause 'tis drown'd.
Then in more ponderous notes and slow,
Let the deep bass go down, extremely low.
Hark the shrill soprano near
Bursts upon the startled ear!
Higher and higher does she rise,
And fills with awful screams the flies.
By straining and shrieking she reaches the notes,
Out of tune, out of time too, the wild music floats;
Till, by degrees, the vigorous bawl
Seems to decay,
And melts away
In a feeble, feeble squall.

In music there's a medium, you know;
Don't sing too high nor sink too low.
If in a house tumultuous rows arise,
Music to drown the noise the means supplies;
Or when the housemaid, pressed with cares,
To yonder public-house repairs,
Some gallant soldier, fired by music's sound,
Will order pints of half-and-half all round.
John the footman nods his head,
Swears he'll not go home to bed;
In his arms a partner takes,
As some courteous speech he makes;
And suddenly the joyous pair engage
In giddy Waltz or Polka, now the rage.

But when the violin puts forth its charms,
How the sweet music every bosom warms!
So when the dilettante dared the squeeze,
To hear of Jenny Lind the opening strain,
And in the rush serenely sees
His best coat torn in twain,
Transported simpletons stood round,
And men grew spooneys at the sound,
Roaring with all their wind;
Each one his power of lung displayed
In bawling to the Swedish maid;
While cheers from box to pit resound
For Lind, for Lind, for Lind!

But when through those mysterious bounds
Where the policeman goes his rounds,
The Poet had by chance been led
'Mid the Coal-hole, festive shed,
What sounds were heard,
What scenes appeared,
How horrible the din!
Toasted cheese,
If you please.
Waiter—stop!
Mutton-chop.
Hollo! Jones,
Devilled bones;
And cries for rum or gin!
But hark! the chairman near the fire
Strikes on the table to require
Strict silence for a song.
Thy tongue, O waiter, now keep still;
Bring neither glass, nor go, nor gill;
The pause will not be long.
The guests are mute as if upon their beds;
Their hair uncurl'd hangs from their listening heads.
By the verses as they flow,
By their meaning nothing though,
Full of tropes and flowers;
By those lofty rhymes that dwell
In the mind of Bunn so well,
Like love in Paphian bowers.
By the lines that he has made,
Working at the poet's trade—
By the "marble halls" so smart,
By "other lips" and "Woman's heart,"
True poetry at once restore, restore,
Or don't let Bunn, at least, write any more!

But soon, too soon, poor music shuts her eyes;
Again she falls—again she dies, she dies.
How will she now once more attempt to thrive?
Ah! Jullien comes to keep her still alive.
Now with his British Army
Quadrille, so bright and balmy,
Or, with four bands meeting,
Two men a large drum beating,
He gives the tone
Of dying groan,
Or soldier's moan,
When at his post
His life is in the battle lost.
With five bands surrounded,
Is Jullien confounded?
No! onwards he goes,
And his arms about he throws.
See: wild as a wild duck the bâton he plies:
Ah! down in the chair he drops, closing his eyes.
My eyes! He dies!
He comes to life—for Jullien all have sung;
The name of Jullien is on every tongue.
The boxes and the pit,
Both they who stand and sit;
With Jullien's name the entire house has rung.

Music the greatest brute can charm,
And savage natures will disarm.
Music can find luxurious ease,
Making what bargain it may please.
A salary it can improve
To any sum that it may love.
This the delightful Lind has found,
And to the tune of fifteen thousand pound.
When the full house enjoys the Swedish bird,
E'en fashion deigns to lend its ear,
So eager 'tis to catch each little word,
That were a pin to drop it must be heard;
And people come from far as well as near!

Of Orpheus now no more let poets tell,
For Jenny Lind may boast with greater reason;
His numbers he for gold could never sell—
She makes her fortune in a season!

"OH MY PROPHETIC SOUL! MY UNCLE."
]

A CURIOUS INQUIRY.
BY A MEMBER OF THE ANIMALS' FRIEND SOCIETY.

I wonder with what feelings does a cat contemplate a fiddle? Does the sight of it move his bowels of compassion? Does he look upon it as the hated persecutor of his innocent race for years? Is he vindictive against it? Does some inward voice tell him that on that very spot was murdered perhaps one of his dearest relations? Does he feel prompted to revenge? Does it ever strike him that it may be his own case to-morrow? If a cat feels all this, then the sight of a fiddle cannot be the pleasantest object in the world to him, and I fancy I see in my mind's eye a family of orphan kittens weeping over a violin as the cruel instrument of their father's death. But, alas! it's all fiddle-de-dee. Cats have no feelings, or else every Tom in every village would be a Hamlet!

* * * * *

HOW TO BEGIN THE NEW YEAR.—The first thing is to take one year off your age. Recollect every year you grow older you are one year younger. Ladies are not restricted to any number. He must be a fine bore indeed who succeeds in piercing a lady's years!

* * * * *

HOW TO PUT DOWN REPEAL IN IRELAND.—Agitate for it in England.

SAYINGS AND DOINGS OF MR. BROOK GREEN.

NOT WITTY HIMSELF, BUT THE CAUSE OF WIT IN OTHERS.
]

Poor Brook Green was always too ready to display his ignorance. Nothing could restrain him, when he found a good opportunity A gentleman was showing the Elgin marbles to some ladies in the British Museum, when Green rushed up to him, and said in the most positive manner, "Excuse me, sir, but I think you called those stones marbles!" "I did, sir," replied the gentleman, rather surprised. "Well, but now look at them, really you cannot call them marbles." "But I do, sir, I maintain that they are," exclaimed the gentleman in a simmering passion; "do you pretend to tell me that they are not the Elgin marbles?" "Pooh, pooh," said Green, with a contemptuous smile, "it's ridiculous—you can't be serious." "Since they are not the Elgin marbles, then, sir, perhaps you can tell me what they are?" "Oh! that's not for me to say," answered Brook Green; "but I can only assure these ladies that they're a precious deal more skittles than marbles," and he walked away quite triumphantly.

Smith and Jones were looking over a new portrait of Buggins, painted by Muggins. "It's too dark, much too dark," said Jones, "you can hardly see a thing." "I tell you what it is," exclaimed Smith, "the lights want bringing up; what do you say, Green? Don't you think the portrait would look all the better if the lights were brought up?" "Certainly," he said, and he left the room. They were wondering what had become of him when he walked in five minutes afterwards with a pair of lighted candles. "My dear Green," said Smith, "what have you brought those candles for?" "Come, that's cool," answered poor Brook; "didn't you say the lights wanted bringing up?" Jones gave him one of his frowns which lasted five minutes.

He thought every one was imposing on him, and no wonder, for he was being hoaxed almost every minute of his life. "What's this!" he asked, whilst looking over some engravings. "That's Cleopatra's needle, sir." "Well, on my word it's very like a needle, and a stitch of it must have saved nine of any other needle;" and he laughed away as if he had made the very best joke in the world. "And what is this, pray?" he asked, taking up another engraving "Why, sir, that is the great Pyramid." "Nonsense, my dear fellow, you make a mistake; if the last was Cleopatra's needle, this one must be her thimble," and he gave the shopman such a dig in the ribs that he was kicked out of the shop.

"Look at that idiot!" he cried, pointing to a man who was leading a watering-cart; "will you believe it, I have told him no less than ten times that all the water is running out of his cart, and yet he takes no notice of what I say."

You could persuade Green to believe any absurdity. "I wish you would step over to the Bedford, Green," said young Thomson, "and order me a dozen of port?" "I haven't the time," answered our hero. "Well, then, will you get me half a dozen; the deuce is in it, my good fellow, if you haven't time enough for that!" Green actually went; and he would do the same thing for you to-morrow. He has been known to get half way over a river, and then swim back again for fear of not reaching the opposite side. On another occasion he ordered a pair of globes, but sent them back because they were not exactly alike. He also had a sun-dial fitted up in his bedroom, to enable him, as he said, to rise every morning with the sun.

Brook Green's knowledge of literature was very superficial. The editor of the _Quarterly_ made a wager with him once that he would not mention a single thing correctly out of Shakspeare. "Can't I, indeed!" he exclaimed; "why I know his works all through from beginning to end: first of all, there is a set of chessmen, then there are two dice-boxes, after that six dices, and lastly, a game of draughts. I'll just trouble you for the money, if you please." The poor fellow had always looked upon a backgammon board, which folded up like a book, as a copy of SHAKSPEARE'S WORKS, for so it was labelled; and he was quite indignant because the editor of the _Quarterly_ would not pay him the wager, which he considered he had fairly won.

* * * * *

AGRICULTURAL.—Turn down your flower-beds to see if they are damp, and give them a good shaking. If they want airing, let them have an extra sheet of snow, and pass the warming-pan once or twice over them. Rub up your "Sweet William" with tallow, and let your "Old Bachelor" have a warm bath the last thing at night, if you fancy he has caught cold.

* * * * *

DIRECTION FOR HUSBANDS.—All the wards of a latch-key should be home-wards.

THE DAWN WHEN UNADORNED ADORNED
THE MOST.

"92 IN THE SHADE."
]

Bright blew the wind, and plaintive rose the air,
Dark was the morning, but the night was fair;
A misty shade hung over great and small,
Afraid to rise, yet unprepared to fall.
Birds clustered shivering amid the trees;
Thermometers stood still at twelve degrees;
The wolf was dormant in his mountain lair;
The tiger strutted forth to take the air;
The elephant upon his mossy bed
Reposed instinctively his monstrous head;
Even the windmill paused, as if it found
Not yet the time for turning itself round.
The thunder through the air with caution crept;
The very chamois looked before it leapt;
The nightingale went forth long ere 'twas dark,
The early morn was ready for the lark.
The cuckoo nestled in the budding rose;
The pink was dying in cornelian throes.
The dahlia, with the thickening gloom upon her,
Looked nightlier than the nightshade (Bella Donna)
And all was silent in the distant glen,
Save that tremendous hum—the hum of men!

THE DUTY OFF TEA.

We wonder the ladies never agitated for the reduction of the duty off tea. They should have formed an "Anti-Tea League." If they had only laid their tongues together, the death-rattle of the duty would have sounded for ever. The noise would have made ministers tremble, and the great wall of China would have shaken like a row of plates on a kitchen dresser with the tremendous reverberation. Imagine 12,000,000 tongues calling out "Repeal the duty off tea!" and then conceive, if you can, what the intensity of that clamour would be when every one of those 12,000,000 tongues was a female tongue! We pronounce this omission a terrible _lapsus linguæ_ on the part of the Wives and Daughters and Grandmothers of England. Where, we ask, is Mrs. Ellis? that formidable female champion of Great Britain.

Let us suppose that this Utopia has arrived. Tea is free! Bohea has burst its fiscal fetters, and the "best black" is emancipated from its custom-house bonds. Now, it has been proved by every political economist that the cheapening of an article always increases its consumption. What oceans of tea then will be drank when the luxury can be procured at six farthings a cup cheaper! "A dish of tea" will be magnified into a soup-tureen; urns will swell into the size of beer-barrels; and a tea-caddy will assume the dimensions of nothing smaller than a corn-bin. The carts of "No. One, St. Paul's," will vie in grandeur with Barclay and Perkins' drays; and John will be told to go down into the cellar "to bring up another hogshead of the Best Sixpenny Mixed." Scandal, which, next to the sloe, forms the principal ingredient in every brewing of tea, will increase also in proportion to the consumption. No one's reputation will be safe. It will be quite frightful to calculate the dear innocents who will die the death of kittens in the "social cup," and the innumerable characters that will be put into scalding water, and scraped as clean as bitter-almonds, at every "_Thé Réunion!_" Washer-women too—the greatest _trait_ in whose amphibious characters is proverbially the tea-tray—will be in a state of celestial _scan. mag._ all day, and will fine-draw their customers' respectability at the same time that they mangle their linen. Female society, in short, will grow into a species of Inhumane Society; and inquests will be held amongst gentlemen after dinner on the lost reputation of their friends, and the verdict will be "Felo-de-se at Mrs. Candour's Tea-party," or "Found Drowned in a Teetotaller's slop-basin." Husbands of England! beware of Cheap Tea, or else the sugar-tongs may be turned against you in the same way that St. Dunstan treated a certain French gentleman by the nose.

A GOOD CUP OF TEA. (_WHEN THE DUTY IS TAKEN OFF_)
]

LAYS OF MODERN BABYLON.
BY YOUNG WHAT D' Y' CALLY.
(AGED NINE YEARS AND A DAY.)
OLD MOTHER HUBBARD AND HER DOG.

The ancient dame of Hubbard,
More ancient there are none,
Has hied her to her cupboard,
To fetch her dog a bone;
From shelf to shelf her eyeballs
Quickly and madly glare,
The cupboard of Dame Hubbard
Is desolate and bare.
Again, with eagle's vision,
She scans the wretched void;
She seeks a bone; but there is none,
And none that dog enjoyed.

Now for a pleasant substitute
She racks her puzzled head,
And to the baker's darts she forth
To buy the dog some bread.
But presently returning
With all that she required,
The bread falls from her palsied hand—
Ha! ha! the dog's expired.
The mournful rights of sepulture
She hastens to fulfil;
And at an undertaker's
Incurs a heavy bill.

A coffin she has purchased,
And madly rushes in;
Jupiter Gammon! there's the dog
Upon the broad, broad grin!
Bewilderment and pleasure
For mastery contend:
Dame Hubbard's startled by the dog
But glad to see the friend.
She fain would entertain him
With something to his wish;
To fetch some tripe, she gives a wipe
To a half dusty dish.

Then, fleet of foot and gay of heart,
Returning with the tripe,
She dimly sees, through clouds of smoke,
Her dog behind a pipe.
But when did woman's patience
Fall overcome and dead?
Never while Mother Hubbard
Had heart, and heels, and head!
Off to the tavern straight she flew
For wine, drawn from the wood;
She brought it—and upon his head
The dog inverted stood.

Untiring and undaunted,
A fruiterer she sought;
The fair and fragrant gooseberry,
The currants, too, she bought;
The strawberry, whose noble leaves
Of dukedom are the type;
The raspberry, which, like the mind,
Is long in getting ripe:
She bought them all, both great and small;
But entering with the fruit,
The sound of melody she heard—
The dog did play the flute.

The dame was not insensible,
The music touched her heart;
He should have man's attire, said she,
Who plays a mortal part.
And acting on the impulse,
A tailor's shop she gained,
Where a paletot, lately register'd,
Was speedily obtained.
She had not reach'd her cottage door
(She carried still the coat)
When she beheld upon the green
Her dog, who rode a goat.

Another mission, and the last,
Dame Hubbard doth perform;
A wig, she reason'd to herself,
Would keep the dog's head warm.
Then with the wig upon her arm
She towards her dog advanced,
And found him strangely occupied—
A jig he wildly danced.
Gay hose from the hosier she obtained,
A glass he stood before,
Wrapt in self-admiration
For his gay clothes he wore.

When old men on the winter's night
Shall mix their pleasant grog,
And youth attempts its first cigar,
Think of Dame Hubbard's dog.
When the maiden of the household
For sweet repose prepares,
Taking the rushlight and the plate,
One in each hand, upstairs—
Think of the good Dame Hubbard,
And hope through life to jog
With a friend that's half as faithful
As her old eccentric dog.

G. A. A'B.

DIFFICULT THINGS TO BE MET WITH ON THE
CONTINENT.

A _table d'hôte_ without a single Smith.

A monument that has not an English name upon it.

A waiter at any of the hotels on the Rhine that does not sell eau-de-Cologne.

A bit of soap that can be persuaded to lather.

A Frenchman on the field of the Battle of Waterloo.

Two fine young Englishmen dining without champagne.

A Dutchman on the top of the spire of Strasburg Cathedral.

A Commissionaire, or a Conducteur, or a Portier, that has not served in the Imperial Guard.

A Frenchman speaking any language but his own, an Englishman that looks happy, a German that looks clean, or a pig that has the slightest resemblance to a Christian pig.

The precise rule of arithmetic by which hotel bills, particularly in Switzerland, are made out.

An Irishman, a Welshman, and a Gascon travelling together.

A party of English ladies the payment of whose luggage does not far exceed their railway-fare.

A looking-glass without a group of Frenchmen before it.

A regular John Bull returning home who is not glad to get back again to England.

ABSENTEES AND EMIGRANTS DURING 1847.

LUCY NEALE has returned, after a sojourn of many months, to Ethiopia, where it is to be hoped she will pass the remainder of her days. She was accompanied by Mr. Daniel Tucker, Miss Mary Blane, a large _suite_ of buffalo gals, and other sable bores. Specie to a very large amount was carried off by Bones, and his numerous instruments.

The TWELVE FLOUNCES which were conspicuous last year in the most fashionable circles, and were seen everywhere dangling after the heels of the finest ladies, have likewise left the shores of England. It has been said they have been "tucked up" comfortably in France.

The WOOD PAVEMENT has broken up its numerous establishments about town, and is now nearly swept away from the surface of London. Wood has been turned out of the city as well as Middlesex, though it was thought he would have been returned at the head of the poll, so numerous were the plumpers he received from the immense bodies of the corporation. He has been dreadfully cut up lately, and has retired into private life, for no one is better qualified to shine on the domestic hearth than Wood. When he is in one of his lively sparkles, every one draws in a circle round him, and even the coldest person holds out a hand to him, and is glad to stir him up.

TOM THUMB is at present in America, after having made his fortune in England, like a pastrycook, by selling kisses. He was the first to start the cheap _'busses_. He has lately been married to a dwarf. Barnum, his keeper, says the marriage must be a happy one, for there can be no doubt about wearing the breeches, since husband and wife only make up between them

"A PAIR OF SMALLS."
]

THE BRITISH DRAMA.—It has gone no one knows where. It is at present an absentee, but is expected to come before the public again shortly. Rumour says it is on a visit to Mr. Macready. It could not have a better guardian, for it is not the first time Mr. Macready has proved himself a perfect host for the British Drama. The last accounts, however, were that it was stopping at the Wells for the benefit of the waters, and that it was so far improved in health as to be able to draw a very large house.

THE OLD PARLIAMENT.—It left England last July, after an unusually long residence in London of seven years. It has left behind one representative, called "Free Trade," now aged two years. According to the latest inquiries, "it was doing as well as could be expected."

ETON MONTEM.—For particulars of this absentee, please inquire at the different masquerade shops.

THE UNIVERSAL SMASHER.

"Smash" is a word peculiarly the property of the "Fast Man." We believe it means to break, demolish, crush, annihilate. Like repudiation, it is of American origin, for we recollect there is the elegant Yankee term, "eternal smash." A "smasher," consequently, is one who smashes; and the Universal Smasher is a young gentleman whose particular vocation and amusement is to smash everything and everybody.

We remember meeting with one, after the first night of a new comedy, at a popular _café_, where the clever young wits of the day mostly congregate to lay down the law for England upon fashion, literature, cigars, royalty, casinos, metaphysics, ballet-girls, and morality.

He attracted our notice first by speaking very loudly, and calling out, in a voice as voluminous as the late lamented Mr. Toole's, "Waiter, another bottle of ginger-beer!" It was not so much the order, as the martial tone in which it was conveyed, that first awakened our curiosity. We expected, at least, to see a giant. We turned round and only found a pigmy. It was our wonder how so big a voice could find a residence in so small a body. But if the voice was immense, what were the sentiments that we afterwards heard emanate from the same lips!

The poor author, whose piece but two minutes ago had been announced amidst the greatest applause "for every night until further notice," was declared to be "an impudent nobody." Every one of his brilliant jokes was stolen; all his points, only points gained by cribbage. The young gentleman before us traced the pedigree of every epigram, gave the descent of each witticism, proved the birth of the plot, and established beyond a doubt the parentage of each separate scene. "A comedy, sir! It's no more a comedy than Joe Miller's a comedy. Dramatise a Jest Book— give it a proverb for a title, and you will have a better comedy than that. I tell you what it is, sir,—Jones must be smashed!"

He had no sooner come to this decision than there sounded and resounded a tremendous echo of long-repeated "hip-hip-hurrahs!" We inquired whence they came. It was a supper-party upstairs commemorating the glorious triumph of the evening. Poor Jones! he little thought that moment, when probably he was returning thanks for his health, and was full of joy, champagne, and the happy intoxication of success, that the decree had just been irrevocably passed that "he must be smashed!"

The conversation travelled on. Our unknown friend next criticised the actors. One was "a stick," another a "pump;" the gentlemen were "muffs;" the ladies something that may be conceived, but cannot be printed. The unhappy manager even did not escape. "He had never seen a piece worse put upon the stage. It would disgrace a penny theatre. By Heavens! he would show him up—such a humbug must be smashed!"

We looked with awe upon this wholesale "smasher." We trembled lest we should be the next victim, and involuntarily curled ourselves up in the dark corner of the box to avoid his destructive notice.

A stranger who came in happened to lay upon the table a series of engravings, which had just been published, and were selling, it was reported, most extensively. "Excuse me, sir," he said, taking up one of them; "I hope you've not been buying this rubbish? It is nothing but a rank imitation of Hogarth—without any of his talent, execution, or purpose. It is satire diluted to the weakest gin and water. The fellow who has put his name to it deserves to be smashed, and I have a good mind to do it."

"In mercy, I hope, you will change your mind, sir," said the stranger, rising and taking off his hat; "or at all events, that you will stop till I have had my supper. You wouldn't smash a poor '_fellow_' with an empty stomach, surely?" and he held out his hand with smiling good-humour to his intended "smasher."

The laugh went against the latter, and seemingly it did not sweeten much the fine cordial spirit through which he viewed men and things.

In the course of the general conversation "Macbeth" was mentioned. "Macbeth!" he exclaimed; "a stupid, vulgar melodrama, only fit for the Britannia Saloon. Why, it wouldn't succeed at the present day unless it was brought out as a pantomime with plenty of blue fire. In my opinion, Shakspeare is a tremendous do—I don't hesitate to say so—and I should like uncommonly to smash him."

Tennyson shortly afterwards was declared to be deserving of the same fate.

Byron also was a great mistake; Walter Scott, too, was no better, and they ought both of them to be smashed.

Shelley was an impudent pretender, and ought properly to have been smashed long ago. By Jove, he'd do it some day!

It was poor Goldsmith's turn next; but he relented, saying, with a mutilated sigh, he was scarcely worth smashing.

But Milton was "a ponderous take-in—a violent mistake." He was very good for old women, no doubt, but as heavy as cold dumpling; and nothing but sheer starvation could force him down his throat. He wished to Heaven some one would smash him!