Chapter XII: Part II (6)

A ROMANCE OF REAL LIFE (founded on the above) 2 6

PUBLIC INQUEST 5 0

ADJOURNED MEETING 2 9¼

MALICIOUS FABRICATION, a long letter from myself, declaring 4 7
most circumstantially that I am not, and have never been
dead, and spurning in the most indignant manner (to the
extent probably of three shillings) the Verdict of
"Temporary Insanity"

ANOTHER LETTER, commenting with moderation on the atrocious 1 11¼
cruelty of the fabrication, and lashing Lord John for not
instituting proceedings for the discovery of the Monster in
human form, who first propagated the Heartless Rumour

———— ————

19 9¾

Now I know, Tom, this would be unprofessional, but really in times like these, when a capital execution scarcely turns up once a year, it doesn't do for a person to be over nice; besides, if I do extinguish my vital spark for six days, where's the great harm? Not a person sustains the slightest injury; I have no relations to blackguard me afterwards for not dying. I have no heirs to sue the paper for damages; I have no grandmothers to be hurried into an early grave by the intelligence; and I get a week's dinners by dying at a time I was never more puzzled how to live. My table, I can assure you, has not groaned under the luxuries of the season for ever so long. So where is the great sin of leaving this sublunary sphere for seven days, if I cannot keep soul and body together without it? Psha! it's all affectation, and I have a good mind to try an Awful Suicide to-morrow; and, to make it more interesting, call myself "a Gentleman of Fortune." All this scarcity comes of educating people, and the march of intellect, and the rage for improvements! Did you ever hear such nonsense? Why, I suppose civilization will be taking such rapid strides that the wood pavement—(I hope you have got one in your place; the bit of wood in the Strand lit my fires for two winters running: what a field it was for accidents, to be sure! I used to pick up two a day)—will be cut eventually from under our feet, and we shan't have a bit of orange-peel, or a slide even, to stand upon, or as much as a drop of prussic-acid to warm our hearts with before going to bed of a cold night. It's all a mistake; and if I am a victim to it I shall lay my death at the door of civilization, and charge them with it. Why, the cabs are nothing to what they used to be— they wont upset; and I do really believe the omnibus conductors are getting civil, merely to spite us. The lightning conductors, too, are very little better. I haven't been able to drink your health in a drop of electric fluid for many a day. Where it will end none of us can tell. The steamers have done a little for business, it's true, and I expect they will do a great deal more for us; but what, I ask you, is a _Cricket_ amongst so many? Besides, one doesn't get such a good blow-out every day. Education, I see, will be the ruin of us all. I have serious thoughts of turning an informer, and reporting my own cases; or, if it comes to the worst, of going over to Dublin, and stopping there patiently till the row at Conciliation Hall begins. I wish it would take place to-morrow! They are a long time about it for Irishmen; for the winter is coming on, and I must give up all thoughts of coals, unless I get a good Destructive Fire or two. Candles, too, come dear when you cannot find, search where you will, the smallest bit of Seasonable Benevolence to pay for them. There's only Railways left us. Do you know, I drink the health of that dear Eastern Counties every time I am lucky enough to get an Awful Accident out of it. Why, Tom, my boy, I was only thinking this morning, as I was leaning over London Bridge, hoping an ill wind would blow me something good, that I would start a railway, and so make my own Accidents, and write them, for greater accuracy, on the spot. I might contract with the different papers to supply them cheap all the year round. But then I recollected, and a burning tear bedewed my eye, that that line of luck was all over, that the poor stags were fairly run off their legs, and that an end had been put for ever to Capel Court. Twelve months sooner, and the thing might have been done. I only wish I was in Hudson's shoes, that's all. What a deal of money I would make, 'lining—wouldn't I, just!

Well, Tom, I must leave you. The neighborhood has just been thrown into the greatest consternation by an "Enormous Gooseberry." I run to measure it with an India-rubber band, for that stretches the best. I hope it is a crammer; at all events I must make it large enough to serve me for dinner, and leave me something to fill my pipe with afterwards. Good-bye, Tom. I hope Liverpool (you lucky fellow, you had the Fever all last winter; you ought to have made your fortune, too, with the Irish) is better off in Accidents—it is much richer I know in Fires—than London. If not, I will make this agreement with you: you shall have my Inhuman Neglect by the Parish Authorities, if you bequeath me your Awful Death by Starvation. Is that a bargain?

I remain, my dear Tom,
In a state much better conceived than described,
Yours regularly "in a line,"
A. CHANCE.

The Ether's a failure; not a single explosion worth having. Can't you send me up a Shower of Frogs in your next letter? You shall have an Infamous Hoax by return. I say, the American Sea-serpent has not had a turn lately, or the Oldest Inhabitant, and, _entre nous_, Lord B—h—m has not been killed once these seven years; I have got his Life all ready. I will toss you for him, if you like. What do you say? Two out of three? or Sudden Death?

_Young Flimsy_ was complaining at the _Blue Bottle_ last night of the pressure of the _Times_. He said he had a most "Wonderful Appetite" on Thursday, and invited half-a-dozen "liners" to supper on the strength of it, but the Currency deprived him of every penny, notwithstanding he had a Curious Case of Instinct, which he made sure would bring him in half-a-crown.

Address to me at the _Illustrated Weekly Murder Sheet_ Office.

ILLUSTRATED CONUNDRUM.
(THE OLDEST ON RECORD.)

_Question._—=W= is a a

_ Answer._—=W= it is =A=

A MYSTERY OF LONDON.

A DRIZZLING mist begins to fall. The clock of St. Clement's strikes seven. A November fog lowers its invidious veil over the bright face of London. I hurry on, impatient to listen to the rival strains of the cricket and kettle, who, I know from a mysterious singing in my ears, are gaily carolling on my hearth in Clare Market. "There is no place like home!"

With these thoughts I redouble my speed, even as the jaded cab-horse quickens his broken knees when he sees in his mind's eye, through distant streets, the door of the livery stable. The fog has the thickness of repeated blankets. It is no light task for a blind dame to thread a needle in the dark. That task, however, is as light as the sun with 20,000 additional lamps on its birthday, compared to the difficulty of threading Temple Bar in a fog! But patience, like the boy Jones, will get through anything.

I have shaken off the mud of the city: I breathe the balmy smoke of Westminster. My high-low, or rather my high-lows (for I have two) heat once more the proud Strand. I pass the antique apple-woman on my left; on my right I leave Holloway and his far-famed leg of twenty years' standing—that Wandering Jew of advertisements which is perpetually running through the papers. I drop a sympathetic pill to the memory of Aldborough. Proud Earl! Never did mortal lay the flattering ointment to his soul as thou hast done! I hurry onward.

But what fragrant perfume, stolen or strayed from Araby the Blest, plays round my nostrils? It cannot be the fog, for it is so like stewed eels. It salutes my nose with all the warmth of a long-absent friend. I follow it, as Hamlet did the Ghost. An invisible attraction pulls me gently on, even as the magnetic duck which a child leads where he will by applying a load-stone to its nasal organ. I neither see, nor feel, nor hear; I only smell. My whole nature is standing on the bridge of my nose. How blind is man! In my ardour I have nearly upset a respectable stranger: I beg his most unadulterated pardon a hundredfold; but he heeds me not. A rich necklace of pies, Twickenham's fairest jewellery, dazzles his weak vision, and fastens, as with a golden hook, all his eyes. He is under a Savory spell, longing for More. A hundred appetites glisten from his cavernous brows. Epicurus and Dando seem to have chosen his high cheek-bones for their respective thrones. His mouth opens and shuts a thousand times, just like the Strand Theatre opposite; but, alas! takes in nothing by each new motion. Hunger could not well have spared a leaner Frenchman. Poor Monsieur! I have disturbed thy joyous reverie, and would fain make amends for it. "Here is sixpence to buy thyself luscious pies, freighted with all the boundless wealth of the generous eel." But he is as deaf as a relation that is rich. His thoughts are seated at the rich banquet within.

* * * * *

The parish engine is pulled along by a lusty beadle, like an invalid chair at Brighton by one of the plethoric Sons of Plush. Six little boys subscribe their voices and their strength, but there is more of the former than the latter. There is merriment in Drury Lane; loud cries of "Fire" play gaily upon the ear. Even a policeman—that rarest object of _vertu_—is seen. He illuminates for two seconds the busy scene with the "light in his laughing eye" of bull. The fire-escape is unrolled, like a tall mummy, from its dark slumber of ages, and stretches its spider limbs high into the air as it yawns again into life. It crawls, like a centipede on its hind leg, as far as Temple Bar, and there draws itself up, like a big note of exclamation, and makes a full stop. Peradventure it reaches the fire three days afterwards. There is a time for all things.

But whose is that ecstatic figure? It is as familiar to my vision as Cooper in George Barnwell. Who can it be? Yes—no—yes! It cannot be! By St. Jullien, it is the dismal Child of France! The clock of St. Clement's strikes ten. What! Monsieur, hast thou for three foggy hours been poring over those self-same pies? Thy admiration smacks, methinks, of the bigot. Thou art indeed an enthusiast. Hie thee to Soyer! Catch him between a poem and a _pâté_, bursting with the richest stuffing of the goose—I mean the _pâté_. Perform the same rites before his household pans of stew; let thy every limb speak thy admiration, and my head of hair, bought but yesterday at Truefitt's, he will give thee, for half such prodigal worship, thy weight in pies, be they of gooseberry or mutton, or the ham and veal dedicated to Thespis, or even the delicate eel, the dear object of thy silent love! Concealment has indeed fed upon thy damask cheek, and picked it—would I could say clean!—to the bone. "_Voici, mon Noble Seigneur, de quoi te régaler._" He sees not the proffered Joseph; he hears not my tones, sweet with charity. He stirs not: he stands on holy pavement. Poor Frenchman, I would tarry with thee, but I must rush me home to supper. Haven't I tripe waiting kindly for me! My clay, too, points to heavy wet; and my pewter will lose its head if I am not quickly with it. _Adieu._

* * * * *

Night has spread its shutters over London. All is still, save a spirituous cry of "Va-_ri_-e-ty," that comes at muffled intervals leaping through the air. There is not a Gent to be seen. Even Lord Ellam has retired to his bed under the ducal counter. Sleep snores heavily in the Strand, and the nightmare rules in the City. All humanity, save editors and milkmen, is between the sheets.

All, did I say? It is false. There is one figure still, very still, on its legs. He is no purveyor of chalk, or human kindness. He is not a thief either, save one of Time; and better to rob him than Rogers' bank,—though, it is true, the notes may be stopped, but the minutes, alas! never. Whose is that figure? Egad! It is the Frenchman's.

There he stands, opposite the same identical emporium. He is wrapt in mystery and a Spanish cloak, with a collar borrowed from the poodle. He has not moved the whisper of a pig to the right or to the left. What fearful secret can chain him to that awful spot?

His iron glances seem as if they would pierce like nails at tenpence a-piece the shutters of that Depôt. The hunger on his countenance is not yet appeased. I offer him an Havannah, the best that the Green of Turnham can produce. He answers me only with a sallow smile. No complaint escapes his lips, though it is clear as Thames water that is filtered that he is ill at ease. Ah! perhaps he is doing penance for some early crime? Perhaps it is a vow he has registered in some album to please his Love? Perhaps—but I waste the valuable ink of the printer with these idle sur-mises; be the awful cause what it will, from the bottom of my purse, noble stranger from the noble Land of the _Cancan_, I do feel for thee! Thou wouldst never remain outside a piscatorial pastrycook's for nine long hours, transfixed like a _pose plastique_ (only thou art dressed), unless there were some strange mystery at the bottom of it!

* * * * *

THE SPIRIT LEVEL.
]

I cannot sleep. My pillow is burning hot. Fever shares my bed. The vision of that unhappy Frenchman keeps pulling aside the curtains, and crying aloud in my ear, "Curiosity doth murder sleep." It is too true! Who can close his eyes, though they be weighed down with two bottles of port, of the best Public Dinner vintage, and sealed with the smoke of three-times-ten cigars, when he has a secret gnawing at his heart? I don my morning suit, and walk breathless, breakfastless to the Strand.

Clerks are plodding to their high stools in the City. All waistcoats are turned towards St. Paul's. Omnibuses are laden with cashiers—strict lovers of punctuality—who eat, and drink, and sleep, and make love, by the chronometer. The antique apple-woman is putting on her great coat, the relic of her late relict, a deceased cabman. Holloway determines to have an immense spread, and lays down a roll of ointment eight yards without a seam. Newspaper boys sing in quires as they canter along with wet bundles under their arms. The sun rises; the puddles reflect its golden smiles; the cocks and hens visit their daily cab-stand; the postman's knock is heard; the clock of St. Clement's strikes nine. London has begun a new day.

But what are these facts to me? No more than Spanish Bonds, for I do not even look at them. I have but one object in view, and that is the Frenchman.

But the cloak has disappeared, and the person inside it. His penance doubtless, is at an end—his humble vow fulfilled. He is gone: but, how strange! he has left his boots behind him. There they stand, in the middle of the pavement, bolt upright—one a Blucher, its companion a Wellington—as if they had risen out of the coal-cellar over night, like a couple of mushrooms. A phantom policeman attempts to take them up, but they are riveted to the spot. But, see! the poor exile comes this way: slippers are on his feet. He claims his boots. "Take them," says the man of law, bound in blue, and lettered B 32. No! They will not stir. He pulls them with a pair of boot-hooks, but if there were a Woman's Obstinacy in each sole, they could not maintain their ground more stoutly.

A pickaxe is brought. The boots are pulled up at length, but in company with the flag-stone. They are carried on the latter, as on a tray, before the magistrate. Their disconsolate owner follows them in his slippers. He unfolds his simple unadorned tale of woe. First he identifies the boots. The name of "_Marquis de Carambole_" appears inside each. Next he states he had been giving a lesson in French for sixpence to a family in the Lane of Leather. On his way home he stopped to admire some pies arrayed most temptingly in a sumptuous window. He tarried longer than he intended, but the luxury of the sight beguiled away the unconscious moments. He felt his feet getting very warm, but he thought it was only the grateful steam of the shop. He still looked on, turning over the sixpence alternately in his mind and in his pocket, whether he should spend it, or keep it to have his hair curled. At last he resolved on the rash purchase. He attempted to move, but his right foot was fastened to the pavement, and his left foot too; he was motionless; he was literally screwed—he had grown to the ground. He was riveted to the spot, not only in admiration, but in positive reality. For four interminable hours he endured worse than the torture of Tantalus, for eel pies were not known in the dark ages of Pluto. A feast was before him which he could not touch. Twelve o'clock at last put a friendly termination to his sufferings: the shop closed. He was left in the streets of London all by himself. He felt cold. His feet were benumbed, but he could not do anything to keep them warm. Stamping was out of the question, for he could not even lift them. A policeman told him once to "move on," but unfortunately he came like a shadow, and so departed. He thought of his landlord, of his tailor, of his washerwoman, of everything that was dear to him. A tear washed his cheek. He trembled like a creditor. He did not like to shout for aid, his position was so very ridiculous. At last necessity, the coldest he ever experienced, conquered his vanity. He cut his straps, and ran away like a second Napoleon, leaving Wellington and Blucher masters of the field. Having finished, the poor Orphan of France demands, in a voice of tears, that his boots may be restored to him.

THE APPROACH OF BLUCHER.—INTREPID ADVANCE OF THE FIRST FOOT.
]

"Certainly," says the urbane magistrate; "but you must first pay for the damage you have done to the pavement."

The poor Frenchman pleads that it is not his fault; but his plea is as bootless as himself.

A policeman, with the bump of science, craves leave to explain the mystery.

Leave is given to him; and, clearing his throat, he speaks thus:—"I think I can tell, sir, what is the mystery at the bottom of all this. It is Gutta Percha. This Gutta Percha, sir, is a new material of a waterproof substance; at first soluble, which afterwards hardens, and resists the action of water. It is used largely for boots. It is not proof, however, against heat. The consequence is that when it is exposed to a great warmth it becomes adhesive, and very tenacious of the footing it occupies. There is an instance of a cook whose Irish cousin was warming his feet at the fire; he had on soles made of Gutta Percha. His boots adhered to the hobs, and there he stuck in the kitchen for a fortnight till a frost came. It was called Hobbes' 'Essay on the Understanding.'"

The man of the oil-skin cape is reprimanded severely for this joke, and then resumes: "It is exactly the same scrape with this gentleman, if he will excuse the liberty I take in calling him so," he said, bowing to the Frenchman. "The fact is he remained so long admiring those eel pies that his soul expanded at the sight, and when he wanted to go he found he could not tear himself away: the Gutta Percha had become melted with the heat of the cook-shop, and strapped him to the pavement like a statue on a pedestal."

The mystery was as clear as if it had been strained with isinglass. The boots were investigated, and lo! the policeman's words for once were truth. Gutta Percha was at the bottom of each boot! The spell was solved, and so after a time were the soles. But let the reader scrutinize closely the pavement in the Strand; and on the left side, before he comes to Temple Bar, he will be able to pick out a flag-stone, opposite the "Royal Emporium for Eel Pies," which has on it the perfect imprint of the soles of a Blucher and a Wellington. It was on that very bit of granite where the poor Frenchman stood for nine hours, buffeted by the stream of people that kept flowing backwards and forwards, and tortured beyond any modern martyrdom by the tempting feast spread before him, which he could only devour with his hungry eyes.

Of all the new inventions there is not one which is likely to make a firmer stand, or keep its ground longer, than Gutta Percha.

THE FEMALE TARS OF GREAT BRITAIN.
FASHIONABLE YACHTING.

The ladies are invading everything. The Stock Exchange, Capel Court, the field, the lecture-room, the betting-ring—places exclusively devoted hitherto to black coats and legs of the same colour—have been recently graced, or disgraced, as the case has been, with the presence the fair, and sometimes unfair, sex. The clubs, it is true, are still in the hands of men, and woman, though she has voice enough in laying down the law at home, has none as yet in Parliament; though we are confident if a handsome duchess, or Mrs. Nisbett, were only to put up for a county (say Bucks), that she would no sooner announce her intention of standing, than every Buck in the borough would rush forward to offer her a seat. Common politeness would carry her into the House of Commons. Government, however, is not the only floating and sinking thing that has a helm. Our yachts are open to the ladies; and, till they can steer the Vessel of State, they are at full liberty to soil their _gants de Paris_ in handling the tiller of a Yacht. Are the quick-sands of office more dangerous to thread than the Needles? And what are the breezes, and the ups and downs of a parliamentary life, to those of the ocean? Go, ask Earl Grey, and he will tell you that he would sooner have fifty berths under Government than one in a royal yacht, any day!

The example set by the Queen every year has turned all the ladies mad for a Yacht. It is customary now, instead of packing up the drawing-room furniture whilst the family is out of town, to have it carried on board, where it is fitted up on deck, or does state duty in the cabins. The Turkey carpet covers the vulgar planks, the bell ropes are substituted for the coarse ropes; and chairs, richly inlaid with mother-of-pearl, replace the plain lockers. The whole household is transported generally as well, though apoplectic footmen sometimes desert after the first day, preferring board wages in May Fair to the best wages on board, in the Mediterranean.

The following extract from a Lady's Log Book will best illustrate this new fashion. It is written in the beautifully small handwriting of the enterprising Lady Augusta Fiddle-Faddle, who sailed in the _Jenny Lind_ on a cruise to Paris, last October.

Sept. 2nd.—Started from Cowes. Sea just like a rocking-horse, up and
down, up and down; not at all pleasant; very giddy; wind blowing all
day at my back, nearly breaking my beautiful ostrich feather; no
appetite for dinner; took an early tea, no muffins, not even a
sally-lunn. Gave orders that the French cook (a promising pupil of
Soyer's) might be told "to take good care it didn't occur again." In
bed at eight, very unwell; ordered the rocking of the vessel to be
stopped immediately, but not a soul paid any attention to my
sufferings.

YACHTING FOR LADIES—MAYFAIR IN THE MEDITERRANEAN.
]

3rd.—No new milk for breakfast; told the butler to send for some
directly; the impudent fellow sent word, "that there was no
possibility of making Cowes so soon." Ordered his beer to be
stopped. Dreadful noise overhead. Told Adolphus to inquire what it
was. The intelligent lad brought me intelligence that it was the
housemaid sweeping the carpets on deck. Went upstairs, and asked the
reason why the deck was not ready before twelve o'clock. Told Jane
and Maria Louisa that I would have the strictest discipline
maintained in my Yacht, or else they had better suit themselves at
once with other situations. Superintended the dusting of the
ottomans, and reprimanded John Thomas for going up the dirty ropes
without his Berlin gloves on. Detected a faint smell of tar, and
ordered the carpet to be sprinkled with eau-de-Cologne, and feathers
to be burnt in every room in the Yacht. Threw my glove over the
railing of the vessel to see which way the wind blew; but on its
going straight down and sinking very rapidly recollected that my
purse was inside. A thorough draft arising at that moment blew off
my _fichu_ towards the right, and proved beyond a doubt that the
wind was in a straight line to Brighton. Determined to go there, and
told the coachman in charge of the Yacht to make as much haste as
possible, as I wished to make a morning call on Lady Bandury Bunn,
who was staying there, with all her little Bunns. It turned out,
however, towards four o'clock, that we were not many hundred yards'
distance from Havre; but as I had not a French bonnet with me I
declined going on shore. In the evening, a ball, and I played a
small concertina (I had brought with me to charm the dolphins), to
enable the poor servants to dance. John Thomas and Jane Hussey went
through a hornpipe as well as the uneven state of the Yacht would
allow them. Served out tea and sugar at eight. Towards nine there
was a very strong smell of tobacco; searched the Yacht, escorted by
Adolphus, who carried two wax candles before me; we found the smell
proceeded from the servants' hall. Descended the narrow staircase
cautiously, and surprised, in the pantry, the butler, John Thomas,
and the French cook, each smoking with the window open, what is
called, I believe, a pipe. Ordered these offensive articles to be
seized, and to be instantly thrown into the lowest depths of the
sea; and did not retire to rest before my orders were strictly
executed. Looked into the housekeeper's room, and gave directions
for a muslin cover to be made for the gold Cupid that holds the
compass; if I am correct in so terming the long darning-needle that
is kept under a glass shade.

4th.—Wind very fair to-day. Curled my hair for the first time in
ringlets. Inspected some Valenciennes lace I have bought, a perfect
bargain, of a French smuggler; it will look well on a velvet dress.
Told John to drive direct to Paris. The insolent fellow asked "if I
would go by Brussels, or did I prefer Vienna?" Gave him instantly
warning. He turned the vessel round with its head towards London.
Told him that was not the road to Paris, when he said he "was going
back to Southampton to suit himself with another place." Rang the
bell, and told Grisetta to tell all the servants to come upstairs.
The poor girl only speaking French, the stupid servants, who worry
my life out, did not understand her. Directed my page Adolphus to
summon the butler before me. Mr. Smithers appeared with his hat on;
I asked him how he dared to appear in my presence with his head
covered? His answer was, "that he had had two wigs blown off
already, and he had caught a violent cold in his head." Asked him
"What was his cold in the head when the discipline of the ship was
at stake?" and he could not answer a word. Told him I should report
him to Sir Valentine as soon as we landed in Grosvenor Square. Being
determined to punish the coachman, ordered him to leave the box, and
took the whip out of his hand in the presence of my maid and the
German governess. The menial coloured, and to make his degradation
the more striking, I pulled the cockade off his hat. I then took the
what-d'ye-call-it, the long pole that pushes the vessel along, and
attempted to guide it. The fatigue, however, was too much for my
wrists, and I split my gloves in the exertion; was afraid, besides,
of turning the vessel upside down, but disguised my fears before the
dependents. Left the pole, and picked my way down to the servants'
hall. Found the servants, male and female, at dinner, the butler in
the chair, and Mrs. Bantam, the housekeeper, at the bottom.
Apologized for intruding, for I thought it was best to be civil.
Spoke kindly, and told them to serve me properly, and their rations
of tea and sugar should be doubled. Mrs. Bantam thanked me. Then
told them that "a great act of insubordination had been shown by the
coachman above, and that I had been obliged to strip him"—(Here I
paused to take note of the effect of my words; but no sympathy was,
I am glad to say, evinced)—"of his situation." I reminded them of
their duties, and conjured them to be faithful to their mistress,
and they should not repent it when their wages were paid; but I told
them plainly, if they coalesced with the coachman it should be as
much as their situations were worth. If any one of them was
displeased, and thought herself ill-used, or out of her proper
element, she might leave the ship that instant, and I would be the
last person to prevent her bettering herself. Not one amongst them
took me at my word, and I was pleased more than I can express at
their fidelity. I told them as much, and confessed I had anticipated
a mutiny, but had made up my mind fully how to act in case the
smallest _soupçon_ of treachery had declared itself. "I would have
opened the plugs at the bottom of the yacht," I said loudly to them,
"and we should have all sunk together, after I had taken the
precaution to write a letter to the _Times_, in which every one of
your names would have been reported at full length, with your
christian names and ages." I was going on in the most eloquent
strain, when the most dreadful thumping occurred to the ship, and
there was a noise overhead such as I had never heard before, even at
one of Verdi's operas. I nearly fainted, for I thought a whale had
run against us, and had burst in one of our panels; but a young
footman, who had run upstairs and down again whilst I was losing my
colour, assured me it was only the bowsprit (for so he called the
long pole which protrudes from the front of the vessel) which had
been shattered to pieces in consequence of its coming in collision
with Southampton Pier, which happened at that moment to be in the
way. I then recollected that I had left no one in charge of the
Yacht, and hastened upstairs. I found a Custom-House officer coming
up the rope ladder by the side, and gave the coachman into custody
for having violated the laws of his country. The man searched him,
and said, with the greatest _nonchalance_, that there was nothing
about him that warranted his detaining him. He then asked me if I
had anything to declare. "Anything to declare?" I said. "Yes, I
declare that your conduct is the greatest piece of impertinence I
have ever heard of;" and I went on in a great passion for a long
time. The man got very angry, and I had a very good mind to have him
thrown into the sea for his insolence; but I conquered my pride, for
at that moment Prince FitzunStartz, the young Bohemian nobleman who
first brought over the polka, came tripping on the yacht, and I was
too glad, in order to escape, to take his arm, though he had just
been smoking. I recounted to him the dangers I had gone through, and
he would have it I was "quizzing" him, just as if I was likely to
joke upon such a matter of life and death. We had scarcely reached
the end of the pier when an officer stopped us, and informed me that
the _Jenny Lind_ was seized by the Custom House authorities for
having on board a quantity of smuggled goods. Oh dear! oh dear! that
Valenciennes will cost me dearer than what I might have got it for
at Howell and James's, and they wouldn't have asked me for the money
for six years to come at least; whereas I paid that smuggler every
bit in sovereigns. Oh! that stupid Yacht!

HINTS TO AGRICULTURAL SOCIETIES.—About November stuff your calves for approaching show, and put the tails of your pigs over night into curl paper. Rub a little bear's grease on the head of your sheep, and pass small-tooth combs through their fleecy wool. Wash your Southdowns in warm soap-and-water, and let your little porkers have a good lathering, particularly about the chops. Trim your cows with satin ribbons, part the hair on their foreheads down the middle, and fix it with bandoline. Black the hoofs of your bulls, stir up your Durhams well, and see that they are properly mustered.

* * * * *

PRETTY THOUGHT.—"I would not be a pig," says a Dutch poet, "for then I could not eat it."

LAYS OF MODERN BABY-LON.
BY YOUNG WHAT-YOU-MAY-CALLEE.

(_Aged five years and a day._)

"High diddle lofty diddle and diddle wondrous high— Diddle exalted like balloons far up into the sky." Thus sung a youth of Kensington, a youth of gentle mien, Whose mother came from Knightsbridge, and whose sire from Turnham Green. "High diddle diddle," warbled he, "the fiddle and the cat," But very much I marvel now what meant the youth by that. But words contain all mysteries, as difficult to trace As Cleopatra's needle when it works the fragile lace, And into many patterns all rapidly it flies— As the clouds take strange appearances in floating through the skies. "High diddle diddle," sung the youth with energy intense, "The cat and fiddle," whispered he—alack, he spoke not sense. "The cow," he murmured mournfully, and rather out of tune, "Has at a bound sprung from the ground, and cleared the silver moon." I wot not of his purpose in singing such a strain, But hush! don't interrupt the youth, he takes it up again: "Over the moon the cow has jumped, and then, such sport to see, The little dog laughs quite outright, with a loud _ha! ha!_ HEE!" And now a sad elopement it is our lot to mark— Why should the little dog have laughed? how came he not to bark? For 'twas his solemn duty to try the course to stay Of the roguish dish to thwart the wish, ere with spoon he ran away. The song of youth is ended, but ever and anon The murmur of the melody goes undulating on; The echoes give in fragments the words "high diddle diddle," Then with a rush there comes a gush of—hark! "the cat and fiddle." The melody again I think I hear—or shall hear very soon— The line that says the rampant cow has jumped right o'er the moon, The little dog is laughing too, such merry sport to see, So in half-broken accents whispers a voice to me. But worst of all, and last of all, and saddest thing to say, A voice insists "that with the spoon the dish has run away."

The music of the melody has floated through the air, And died off like the premium upon a railway share.

A BUNDLE OF DEFINITIONS.

THE SEAT OF PAIN.—A seat in the front row of the dress circle of the Adelphi Theatre, judging from first impressions, which they say last the longest, is decidedly the Seat of Pain.

A pew in a fashionable church is a religious ordinary, held every Sunday, price one shilling!

The weathercock, after all, points to the highest moral truth, for it shows man that it is a _vane_ thing to _a-spire_.

The Horse Guards are the Bright Pokers of the army. They are kept up exclusively for show, most highly polished, but never intended to go into the thick of the fire.

Sons treat their governors like oysters: they never cease "sticking" them till they have made them "shell out."

The Press of England and the Press of France are both noted for their convictions—but the first are moral convictions, and the second legal ones.

Abd-el-Kader and a Turkey carpet are very much alike. They never come out so strongly, their designs are never so apparent, and their colours never have so much effect, as after a thorough good beating.

The Albert Hat is one of those things very much better described than _felt_.

Many ideas are exceedingly pretty, which, when inquired into, are found, like a necklace of birds' eggs, to hang upon the slightest thread, and to have absolutely nothing in them. Some authors evidently look upon ideas as children do upon birds' eggs—public property which there is no harm in stealing. They string them, too, very much in the same strain— drawing everything they can out of them, and decorating themselves afterwards with the empty shells.

AGRICULTURAL SPORTS.—About Autumn catch your prize labourer, and joke him at your annual Show; put him on a platform, and make good quiet fun of his having brought up sixteen children on five shillings a week for twenty years. Compliment him most highly on his sobriety and all the cardinal virtues, and give him a good-natured dig about his little potato ground. Give him a glass of wine and five shillings; and when you are tired of the absurdity, tell him to sit down, and call up your fattest pig and bull, and sustain the rollick of the day's amusements by awarding them premiums of 10_l._ and 15_l._ each. This is capital sport, and gentlefolks come far and near to see it, only we doubt if the poor labourer sees exactly the fun of it.

TRUEFITT ON SHAKSPEARE.—An aspiring hairdresser, who has been to see _Romeo and Juliet_, wishes to be informed whether the "parting" which the lady describes to be "such sweet sorrow" was in the middle, or only on one side? We are really unable to say with any certainty; but the faults of lovers, which often lead to a parting, are generally on both sides.

Portrait of Jim Crow, after Herbert.
]

MOVEMENT OF THE FINE ARTS.

The Fine Arts are seized at present with a strange movement; they are all going backwards. One would fancy they were retreating, or that they had lost something on the road, and were turning back to pick it up. We scarcely imagine it was worth while going out of their way to embrace the Middle Ages; it shows but little taste on their part. They might as well dress in the costume of that period, and wear Gothic night-caps, and mediæval high-lows, and talk, and write, and flirt in the language of that period, as to attempt to reconcile its hard angular painting (all their pictures look to us like coloured problems—as if Euclid had been their drawing-master) to the spirit of our own times. Imagine portraits of the heroes of the present age in the stiff kitchen-poker style which Messrs. Pugin, Dyce, and such like retrograders, would wish to revive! How would the immortal Simpson look? How would the popular Jim Crow appear to us, when carried two hundred years back? Why! we should not know them again.

Perhaps this going backwards is for the purpose of enabling the artists to jump farther onwards, as the French proverb says, "_Reculer pour mieux sauter_;" or is it to make the Fine Arts so much younger, by knocking some three hundred years off their age? We always thought that art was of no particular period, but for all time. Antiquated ladies may gain by the above process of youth-making, and we can imagine in our own mind's ear (if the mind has an eye it must have an ear) a very old man saying, "Ah! I wish I could go back to the Middle Age!" but really the Fine Arts should be above such weakness. This love of going backward may account, perhaps, for so few artists getting forward in their profession. Let them turn their backs upon the past, and the future may smile brightly again upon them. The English school of painting will not stand long, if it is built with old materials; some four hundred years old.

THE FIRST NIGHT OF A PANTOMIME.

'Tis boxing night—every theatre is crammed,
As close as a jelly the people are jammed;
Every corner is full from the roof to the floor,
And money is being refused at the door.
The play of George Barnwell is being gone through,
'Mid the usual regular hullabaloo.
A middle-aged actor appears on the scene,
Representing the weak-minded youth of eighteen;
'Tis true he's past forty, but collars turned down,
With tie _à la_ Byron, and wig of light brown,
With whiskers shaved off, and rouge daubed on in plenty,
The old boy of forty looks something like twenty.
But our sympathies, somehow, he doesn't engage,
He's laughed at whenever he comes on the stage;
His uncle they wont let him murder in peace,
But the incident causes a cry of "police."
The uncle elicits no pity at all,
For shouts of rude merriment follow his fall;
And when his assassin has killed him outright,
Some "wag" in the gallery bids him "good night."
The pathos of Trueman, though good of its sort,
Is met with proposals for cutting it short;
And Barnwell goes off to be hanged 'mid a cry
Of "shame," "turn him out," "serve him right" and "good-bye."
The pantomime now is awaited by all;
The house for the overture raises a call;
Confusion prevails, bits of orange-peel flit
From the gallery's hands to the heads of the pit;
The cat-call so loud, and the whistle so shrill,
Are blended with shouts such as "Bob, where's your 'Bill!'"
At length the musicians have taken their seats,
The leader a lamp with his fiddle-stick beats;
Such silences ensues that the dropping of pins
Might be heard through the house when the playing begins.
The overture's always a musical salad,
A mixture of Polka, Cachuca, and ballad:
If the season has furnished a popular air,
The ear that is ticklish will meet with it there.
The taste of the public will often insist on
A _solo_ for trumpet or _cornet-à-piston_,
Which, played well or ill, from the audience draws,
At Christmas, a general round of applause;
During holiday time you can never do wrong
If even a passage you gave to the gong,
Or formed a quartette most delicious and tender,
With poker, and shovel, and tongs, and the fender.
The overture's finished, the curtain's ascended,
A scene is before us exceedingly splendid.
A lovely princess is reduced to despair
At long being wooed by a man she can't bear,
A wretch in a mask with inelegant features,
That are found nowhere else but in pantomime creatures;
But after the lady there constantly dangles
A youth whose thin calves are bedizened with spangles;
For under his cloak his legs we discover,
And "afterwards harlequin" peeps through the lover.

Of course the princess has a father severe,
With a mouth quite extending from ear unto ear;
His head is terrific, and, monstrous surprise,
If you look down his mouth you'll distinguish his eyes.
And as to his voice, if its source you should trace,
You'll find it proceeds from a very odd place—
A sort of incision just under his chin,
Through which he sends forth a most horrible din.
The choice of his daughter he does not approve,
And nothing the heart of the tyrant will move;
The lovers are both to despair giving way,
When of splendid machinery there's a display.
Some clouds from the stage unexpectedly rise,
While a sort of pavilion descends from the flies;
But somehow or other, it seems, in the air,
Their machine always is out of repair;
The clouds make a hitch, and refuse to expand,
Or the flying pavilion is brought to a stand.
The obstacle soon is surmounted, when straight
A fairy appears—the expounder of fate.
She bids the fair lady abandon her gloom,
And the aspect of columbine quickly assume;
At which the princess, being gone to the wing,
Has the whole of her dress dragged away by a string;
Then in petticoats wondrously short she advances,
And gives at the house the most sunny of glances.
To the youth in the spangles the fairy next speaks,
And bids him of harlequin practise the freaks;
The shape he assumes, and attention to win,
His head he sets off in a wonderful spin—
So rapidly twisting and twirling it round,
That we wonder it does not drop off on the ground.
The father and friend are let loose on the town,
As pantaloon one—and the other as clown;
A loud "here we are!" gains a general shout,
Pantaloon says his mother's aware he is out;
And then, 'mid a mutual kicking of shins,
The fun of the pantomime fairly begins.
Of course there's a baker who's robbed by the clown;
Of course there's an image-tray coolly pushed down;
Of course there's a baby crushed flat as a flounder;
Of course there's a lady with pickpockets round her;
Of course there's a pie, and of course (who could doubt of it?)
Directly it's opened, live pigeons fly out of it;
Of course there's a window, and steadfastly view it,
Of course you'll see harlequin neatly jump through it;
Of course there's an uproar, and then, to enrich it,
Of course there's a clamour for "Tippitywitchet;"
Of course it's encored, and, it need not be said,
Of course we're indulged with "Hot Codlins" instead;
Of course they all meet in the Cave of Despair,
And of course no one knows how they ever got there;
And of course the last scene is the Realms of Delight,
And of course there's a hope that you'll come every night;
And of course the kind fairy appears once again,
But why, she of course don't attempt to explain;
Of course she propitiates "all her kind friends."
The curtain then falls, and the pantomime ends.

CHANGE.

How many minds has Julia got?
'Tis really hard to say;
But she must have a precious lot—
She changes one each day!

THE UNIVERSAL PHILANTHROPIST.
]

THE UNIVERSAL PHILANTHROPIST.

Philanthropy, how pleasant is thy name!
How often have I sat up half the night
Some panegyric on thee to indite,
Until I've warmed myself into a flame
Enough to melt my heart within my frame.
Yes, on the subject I delight to dwell,
Penning those sentiments that always tell—
Calling on wealth to wear the blush of shame,
Because 'tis sometimes slow to "give, give, give"
The means whereby the famished poor may live.
Philanthropy! thy dictates I obey;
To pay thee homage I shall never cease;
(_To "Poor Man."_)
"Give you a penny! Nonsense! get away;
If you're not off I'll call for the police!"

THE CITY "FAST MAN."

FADDLE is a distinguished member of the Stock Exchange, and decidedly one of the "fastest men" in the City. He makes his appearance in the City at about half-past eleven every day; strolls about the neighbourhood of the Bank, with his hands in the pockets of his coat-tails; takes a sandwich at the Auction Mart, or oysters in Finch Lane; and goes away about three, with the idea that he has been very busy. We first met him at the Hanover Square Rooms. His dress was rather peculiar; and at the first glance you said (to yourself), "This is no common man;" and it is rather singular that the more you knew of him, the more you became confirmed in that opinion. His coat was very long in the waist, with singularly capacious sleeves; his neckcloth very narrow; and his whiskers a triumph of art in the curling line. His waistcoat was considerably larger than any you ever saw, except on an ostler; his shirt was embroidered and very transparent, with some pink substance underneath, that made one fancy he had recently been using the flesh-brush very vigorously. His trousers were very tight about the legs; and his boots very tight about the feet. The first remark he made was on a young lady, who he said was "a good stepper." He next stated that he had been at the "Corner" all day: on our inquiring where that was, he said, with a contemptuous look, "Tattersall's, to be sure!" He then told us that Lord Levant's "Wide Awake" was a likely horse for the Leger; and said, if we were doing anything on it, we had better not lay out our money on Captain Spavin's "Flare Up." His next inquiry was if we knew Tom Spraggs? and upon our answering in the negative, he ejaculated, quite loud, "Don't he drive cattle, that's all?" We fancied at first that Mr. Spraggs might be a drover, but abandoned the idea in favour of its being some technical term we did not understand. Here the conversation flagged, and to resuscitate it we made a remark on Mr. Faddle's coat-studs, and asked what they were made of? "Teeth," he said. "Teeth!" we could not help exclaiming; "what teeth?" "Why, foxes' teeth, to be sure," he said, turning away with an air of infinite disgust, and never spoke to us again.

We watched him at supper, and found he did not wait on other people much, but took great care of himself. We heard him offer to get a spaniel of some extraordinary breed for a young lady; but he never thought of asking her if she would take anything, though he was eating all the while himself. His appetite, in fact, was rather extensive. He partook largely of the substantials, then addressed himself to the plovers' eggs and lobster salads, and finished with a deep tankard of beer, which he called "malt." Later in the evening we thought a strong odour of tobacco pervaded the hall, and going out we found the "fast man" with a "weed in his off-cheek," as he elegantly expressed it, just preparing to start. His dog-cart was at the door, he jumped in, the small tiger (quite a portable boy) climbed up behind, Mr. Faddle blew a few loud notes with his post-horn, and we saw him no more.

EXPRESSIVE CHINESE PROVERBS.

New milk is not got from a statue.

An emperor may have the measles.

A disobedient son is a mad bull tied to his father's pigtail.

The man who breaks his egg in the centre is a fool.

He who marries an angry woman must sleep in a bed of fireworks.

One bird's-nest in the soup is worth two hundred in the bush.

A wise man at court is like a mermaid in a ball-room.

Carrying a peacock on your head does not make you a nobleman.

Teaching a woman scandal is like teaching a kettle to boil.

A comet can be caught any time by putting a little salt on its tail.

Ambition is like hunting for fleas.

If a golden key wont open a woman's heart, try one of brass.

Shave with a file, if you like, but don't blame the razor.

Looking into the future is like giving a blind man a pair of spectacles to see through a millstone.

The hasty man drinks his tea with a fork.

AN IMAGINARY RUN ON A TURKISH RAILWAY.

FORMATION of the new railway across the Isthmus of Suez is suggestive of some curious speculation as to the mode in which business will be conducted by the Turks, whose tree of knowledge is rather green upon such matters, and may get its owners into a line from which it will not be easy to extricate themselves.