Chapter XIV: Part II (8)

An old fellow who is always recollecting a "capital thing he heard five-and-twenty years ago."

An old play-goer who will insist "we haven't a single actor left," and then tells you, "You should have seen Dicky Suett."

"A man who has seen better days," and will recollect the time he had "thirteen different sorts of wine on his table, and kept his mare and French cook, but no one cares _that_ for him now"—the _that_ being a snap of the fingers.

AN EXTENSIVE ORDER.

_Spacious Gentleman._—"Will you have the kindness, young man, to measure me for a pair of those at 12_s._?"]

THE BRIDGE OF SIZE.
]

WHAT DO ALL ENGLISHMEN TAKE OFF THEIR
HATS TO?[8]

Who is it that gets the most salutes in England? We do not mean the powder which is thundered into the Queen's ears wherever she goes, but the quiet salute which a person makes by taking his hat off.

Now, every Englishman dislikes taking his hat off. It is a trouble, and no genuine John Bull likes more trouble than he can help. It must be something, then, of very great importance—of general love and feeling—a chord that strikes all Englishmen's hearts—that makes everybody, without a single exception, take his hat off to it?

What can it be?

Is it Prince Albert? No; for, familiar as the prints of His Royal Highness may have made his handsome face in the eyes of those who look into print shops, still, from love of retirement, he is not generally known by the public, and he could easily pass down Lowther Arcade without fear of being recognised.

Who is it, then?

Is it the Duke of Wellington? No. It is true he commands a number of upraised hats. All those who know his venerable nose, and know how much England is indebted to it, pay him that little mark of respect. But, popular as the Duke is, every one is not acquainted with him, and there are even a few who still nourish a dislike of his political opinions, forgetting the best part, and only recollecting the worst part, of the man.

A GOOD PARTY CRY.
]

Can it be a creditor?

Certainly not; for debtors always make a practice of avoiding their creditors, especially those of a large amount, or one of the Hebrew persuasion. There may be a few who get a stray lift of the _chapeau_, by way of reconciliation, but in general the eyes of him that owes rarely meet the eyes of him to whom money is owing. We are all blind to our own interest, especially when we pay 10 per cent. for it.

Perhaps it is the wind?

Now, this is a vile quibble; for the reader knows well enough that no man takes off his hat to the wind. On the contrary, the whole energy of a man's ten fingers is concentrated on the rebellious rim, with the view of holding the fugitive castor on. The wind takes off many hats; it is repeatedly done on Waterloo Bridge, and round the corner of St. Paul's Churchyard—you will see it any day during March; but it is preposterous to say that a single hat is ever taken off to the wind.

Well, then, what is it?

Patience for ten lines, and you shall know. Growl, amiable reader, but read.

It is, you must know, a curious instrument, or rather a collection of instruments, that go at once to the bosoms of all Englishmen. It subdues discord, and substitutes pleasant harmony for it. No sooner is a note of it heard than off flies every hat, the whole assembly rises; fifty thousand bare heads—if there are so many present—instantly respect the majesty of the appeal, and fifty thousand voices—if you can only count them—join in glad response to it.

But what is it?

Foreigners even respect it, and take off their hats.

Once more—What is it?

Well, that which has most hats taken off to it, is—

Stop! I have it (cries a young musician, who had the signal honour of beating the big drum in the Drury Lane orchestra on the stormy nights of _Monte Christo_): It's—

Be quiet, sir. It's no such thing. Learn, young man, that you've no right to rob any one of his secret. Sit down, sir, and allow us to say—

Well, then, say it, and be—

Hush—breathe not a word that may be offensive to

EARS POLITE.
]

We were just going to say, if you had not interrupted us, that that which has more hats taken off than anything else is—is—is—

Is what?

Is GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!

And this proves that we English are the most loyal people in the world— at least as far as hats go.

But who can tell whether the reason why the tremendous shower of revolutions, which have fallen this year as thick as hail all over the Continent, have done such little injury in England, is simply because our beloved country is deeply insured in every office, farm, mansion, cottage, in every English heart, by the loyal policy of GOD SAVE THE QUEEN?

So, "Hats off!" and let us all sing—

"May she defend our laws,
And ever give us cause
To sing, with heart and applause,
GOD SAVE THE QUEEN!"

Footnote 8:

The base perpetrator of the above has been dismissed. We hope the
reader is pacified.—ED. C. A.

Fraternité, Egalité, Liberté—d'Après la Republique Rouge.
]

SQUIBS IN STATUES.

THE newspapers make no mention of a statue that was forwarded to the _Beaux Arts_ at the late competition, for the best design upon the Republique. It was a likeness of the Siamese Twins, who are supposed to have sent their adhesion to the French Government. It was meant to typify _Fraternité_ and _Egalité_, but was objected to as being too figurative. The artist altered the attitudes and sent it again; saying he had made the statue literal enough this time, and that his correction enabled him fortunately to include _Liberté_, in addition to the other two types of the Red Republicans. Upon being exhibited, it was found that he had made the Twins fighting in the most fraternal fashion. The result of the _Liberté_ was, that the artist was immediately carried off to prison, for such designs upon the Republique could not be possibly winked at.

VALUABLE ADVICE.

TO PERSONS ABOUT TO MARRY.—Don't buy your furniture at Felix Summerley's Cheap Art-Manufacture Mart.

The above advice is given to young couples about to plunge into the deep waters of matrimony—that awful plunge which is to determine whether their future happiness is to go on swimmingly, or to sink for ever like the _Télémaque_, with all its fabulous treasures on board, when nothing is saved from the wreck excepting a few _spars_.

That long voyage, however, which ends only with the loss of one of the mates, is generally never undertaken but with the strictest economy. The speculation may turn out a bad one; things may be thrown overboard from distress that swallowed up, before sailing, a little ocean of money, but they are usually selected with care, and nothing is shipped but what will fetch in the end almost as much as it cost at first. A mother—that most thrifty shipper in the harbour of life—generally lays in the cargo, and every article is weighed to a scruple in the scales of her judgment, before it is sent home to make the anxious passage to the United States.

_An Interrupted English Dinner Party at Paris._

"Mourir pour la Patrie."
]

We can imagine a fond but imprudent couple going to Felix Summerley's beautiful Emporium of Art-Manufactures. They have no more money than they can spare, but the husband has an eye for the beautiful, and the wife likes—and where is the woman that doesn't?—to have everything of the best. They are tossed about on the beautiful carpets and lovely counterpanes, quite dazzled with the glittering warming-pans, inflamed with the glowing coal-scuttles of every possible age and period, whilst each bright poker they touch burns them to buy it. They go on hopping from one easy chair to another, now dwelling on a carved Artevelde sofa, now conversing with a Gothic dumb-waiter, dumbfounded the next minute by the sweetest _causeuse_ of the middle ages, till they come to a lovely bedstead, where they pause and linger in speechless admiration. At last exclaims the enraptured—

_Emma._ "Oh, how lovely! Look, Edwin, dear, how beautiful it is decorated!"

An Art Blind.
]

_Edwin._ "Yes! but they might have selected some better subject. It would not be very pleasant, I imagine, to wake up in the middle of the night and see people killing one another before your sleepy eyes. But it's wonderfully painted to be sure. That man with the sword through him is quite a bit of real life. However, King John is of a more peaceful nature. Send the latter home, if you please."

_Shopman._ "Allow me to call your attention to this wonderful blind. It is painted by Corbould. The subject is 'Richard going to Palestine.'"

_Emma._ "I never saw anything like it. Isn't it charming, Edwin, darling? It would do very well for the back window of the pink bedroom— you know there's the chimney of the gas-factory, and the preparatory school for boys just opposite."

_Edwin._ "Precisely so, dear. Put it with the other things."

_Emma._ "Oh, what dear funny chairs."

_Shopman._ "They're the latest discovery in Gothic manufactures; copied from a rare hieroglyphic on the tomb of Cheops. The Earl of Peckham has six dozen exactly similar."

An Art Toilet-table.
]

_Edwin._ "Very peculiar—they will do for the hall. What is this, pray? It looks like a cross between an altar and a sideboard."

_Shopman._ "Excuse me, sir, that is a washing-stand—the only one of the kind. It was made for the Grand Duke Skrubisknosklenoff, but his lamented death has left it on our hands. We can let you have it a great bargain."

_Emma_ (ecstatically). "Oh, darling Edwin, do have it, dear."

_Shopman._ "Thank you, sir. Here is a dressing-table, madam, that will just match with it. It was made from a design of Lord Waltzaghane, one of the first masters in point of art of the Young England School, and is universally admired. May I include it with the other articles, sir? I'm sure you'll like it."

_Edwin._ "Very well, then; but that's enough. Come away, Emmy."

_Emma._ "Oh, stop one minute—look here—did you ever? Isn't it elegant? What is it, pray?"

_Shopman._ "Why, ma'am, that is a clothes-horse, made from a drawing of Edwin Landseer's. Prince Albert has the companion to it."

_Emma._ "Oh, do buy it, Edwin; I wont ask you for anything else, indeed."

_Edwin._ "Very well, then; but mind, it's to be the last."

They take arms, and are about to leave the tempting shop, when Emma's attention is suddenly drawn by a curious mug, at which she cannot help laughing.

_Emma._ "Oh! what is this, pray?"

An Art-Teapot.
]

_Shopman._ "That, madam, is a teapot, designed after a popular pattern, very generally known amongst the Ethiopians under the name of the 'blackman's teapot.' It is universally admired."

_Edwin._ "I think it very ugly."

_Emma._ "How can you, Edwin! Why, I think it so very _distingué_. I must have it; do buy it, there's a dear."

_Edwin._ "Now, come along, darling—I'm in a hurry."

_Emma._ "Well, if you wont, I will—I'll buy it myself, and make you a present of it, Edwin."

_Edwin._ "Psha! that's nonsense, child."

Edwin and Emma leave at last, and after dinner, when they are happy in assuring each other for the ten thousandth time that "they never knew what love was before," the new purchases arrive, and the bill is brought in.

The future husband reads out the following bill

£ _s._ _d._

To a beautiful historical Louis Quatorze French 35 0 0
bedstead, designed by Chalon (very cheap)

To one Egyptian clothes-horse, the favourite design of 15 10 0
Edwin Landseer

To one "blackman's teapot," in the very best superfine 7 2 4½
wedgwood (a rich curiosity)

To a magnificent blind—a pure Corbould 40 10 0

To six Gothic Swan-of-Avon Egyptian chairs 60 0 0

To one Stonehenge dressing-table 26 11 2

To one Grecian washing-stand (a decided bargain). 102 0 0

———— ———— ————

Sum total £286 13 6½

We need not repeat the lady's fierce commentaries, or the gentleman's running fire of explosive criticisms upon the various items of the above little bill. Suffice it to say, the art-manufacture goods were returned, and Edwin and Emma bought at an auction the next day articles that suited their purpose just as well for 12_l._ 14_s._ They admitted the superior beauty of Mr. Felix Summerley's Art-Manufactures, but the expense, they both agreed, was "quite preposterous."

Edwin and Emma are married now, and are still of the same opinion, so we cannot help thinking that they must have been in the right.

The fine-art manufactures are certainly very beautiful, but there is moderation even in purchasing one of the earliest efforts of Teniers.

PLAY-BILL DIALOGUES.

The play-bills have got into the habit of asking questions. We should not be surprised to see the other play-bills answering them, in this way.

_Adelphi._ "Did you ever send your wife to Camberwell?"

_Queen's._ "Well, I can't say that ever I did, but I'll make a point of asking her the first time I see her."

_Haymarket._ "Lend me five shillings?"

_Victoria._ "My dear fellow, I only wish you may get it."

_Covent Garden._ "What will the world say?"

_Surrey._ "Ri tol de riddle lol, riddle lol de lay."

_Lyceum._ "Which Mr. Smith?"

_Norton Folgate._ "Whichever you like, my little dear."

_Douglas Jerrold._ "Time works wonders."

_Paul Bedford._ "I believe you, my b-o-o-o-o-oy."

EDUCATION ON THE "MUTUAL ADVANTAGE"
SYSTEM.

_Pedagogue (who gives Food for the Mind for Food for the Body)._ "I tell you what it is, young Suett. It is not the first time your father has sent me bad mutton, and while he sends me such a bad leg as he has done now for three days running, I'm not going to tell you whether Constantinople is the capital of Otaheite or not."

MAKE A WORSE ONE IF YOU CAN.

_Q._ When is a landlord an insect tamer?

_A._ When he has ten-ants at will.

PRETTY LITTLE PUZZLES TO PUZZLE PRETTY
LITTLE PUZZLERS.

(_A number of the "Comic," with the Editor's Autograph, in red ink, will
be given to any one who finds the solution of these puzzles._)

Thomson, who is a clerk in the Bank, gives his wife permission to spend the day with a dear friend at Camberwell. At six he comes home to dinner, and they bring him up

A AND B
]

Can you find out how Thomson is to make a dinner of it?

* * * * *

Monsieur le Marquis de Clichy, on his arrival at Leicester Square, has an order for the Opera given to him. On looking over his wardrobe, he finds all his stock of linen to consist of

whilst his _chaussure_ is on the following footing:—

How ever is it possible for Monsieur le Marquis to go to the Opera as a gentleman?

* * * * *

L, who is an excellent swimmer, goes to Paddington one beautiful warm summer's evening for a refreshing dip in the canal. He leaves on the shore

Whilst he is enjoying himself in the limpid stream, B are carried off by

who leave L as they find him.

How, in the name of goodness, is L to get home?

* * * * *

Little Tommy and Harry (H, T) have a penny given to them each by their kind papa, to go and enjoy themselves at the fair. They get into a swing and are soon whirled to the top. There they remain, quite delighted, for half an hour, till it comes on to rain, when little Tommy and Harry venture to ask AX (the proprietor) when is he going to move on?

AX's answer is very plain—"Not till every blessed seat is taken."

How long do little Harry and Tommy remain perched up in the swing before they get their ride?

* * * * *

Brook Green has for dinner on Monday a beautiful sirloin of beef (B), which he flatters himself will last all the week.

On Tuesday he is told there is not a bit of it left. Brook Green is thunderstruck. He cannot understand it. He asks to see the landlady. She "is extremely sorry, but her bothersome cat (C) has eaten it all."

You are requested to put the two together, and to state candidly if you think it very likely; and, if you have any doubt, you are to find out who really is (C) the cat?

* * * * *

Mrs. Large (of Wapping) has a private box (A) sent to her at Christmas, for the Adelphi, by her obliging friend Mr. Sams. The box is in the upper tier, over the proscenium. Mrs. Large (of Wapping) does not like any of her dear children to lose such a treat, so she takes all her family (B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K), besides one or two friends from Panton Square, who are stopping, for change of air, with her.

You are to find out how many the box was to admit; and how you are to get Mrs. Large and her party into it without having a single one over.

* * * * *

MILITARY INTELLIGENCE.—We see a book advertised called "_The Cornet Made Easy_." We are very glad to hear this, and hope the poor fellow will make himself comfortable; only we should like to know what it is that has lately made the Cornet uneasy.

* * * * *

FIRST LOVE.—The conversation at Holland House turned upon first love. Tom Moore compared it to a potato, "Because it shoots from the eyes." "Or, rather," exclaimed Byron, "because it becomes all the less by _paring_."

THE MILITARY GAME OF GOOSE.

GENTLEMEN OF A PARTICULARLY STAI(YE)D CHARACTER.
]

We are apt to boast that the British army has never received a good dressing, and looking at the uniforms that have lately been put upon them, we must confess there is some truth in it. Our officers were never clever at cutting, and this may account for their making such bad tailors. It is a thousand pities that the Laurel which clusters round the brows of our Commanders, should be entwined with so much cabbage. It is true the geese saved the Capitol of Rome, but we do not think the Horse Guards need put itself under the wings of the British goose. If it does, Moses, in a very short time, will be cutting out Prince Albert as a Field Marshal. Never was the British army so surprised before, as when that cruel shell-jacket attempted by sheer treachery to cut off the rear from the main body of the forces. The French have a saying "_Le Riaicule tue_," so our soldiers may be diminished, in a ridiculous manner little expected by our political economists, if this new deadly weapon is discharged at them; for there is many a brave fellow who can stand fire, who falls dead before ridicule. The Horse Guards must not be a clothes mart, or a masquerade warehouse, or else the Duke, when he puts himself at the head of the army, will revive the old title of the Duc de Guys, and the national cry will be, "Sauve qui peut."

TALES OF A LANDLORD.

His house is free from damp.
The situation is healthy.
The water is beautiful.
The poor-rates are not worth mentioning.
The taxes a mere flea-bite.
It is in excellent repair.
It is a quiet fashionable neighbourhood.
Omnibusses pass every two minutes.
Five pounds will make it a "little Elysium."
He has refused double the rent, only he wants a respectable tenant.

* * * * *

"NOT A SEAT AMONGST THEM."—There is an old country lady so modest that she cannot pronounce the word "cherub;" but she always says, "the dear little angels who have accepted the Chiltern hundreds."

AN AIRY LODGING.

_Country Cousin._—"Well, Tom, my boy, where be'est thee a-lodging noo?"

_Surveyor (pointing up to the top of St. Paul's)._—"Why, I hang out there at present. Whenever you are passing my way, I shall be delighted to see you, if you will give me a drop in."

THE SONG OF THE KNOCKER.
(A COMPANION TO SCHILLER'S BELL.)

Gents Provoko, Portas Bango, Somnia Frango.

_Firmly screw'd upon the door
Doth the lion-knocker frown.
To-night its reign of noise is o'er;
Courage! boys; we'll have it down!
Long its strength defied
Every dodge we tried;
But its nuts no more shall bear it,
From the hinge to-night we'll tear it._

Varied parts of good and ill
It has been its lot to fill.
Many hearts within have bounded
As the postman's knock has sounded.
Cheek has flushed, and pulse has fluttered,
When the written name was uttered.
It might be from one most dear,
Though far off, yet ever near;
Or from one in hopes "you will
Think about his little bill;"
Or a letter overland,
Sent from Ramjamjellyland,
Telling how the ardent Coolies
Had well thrashed the crafty Foolies;
Or a dinner invitation,
Or a Frankfort speculation,
Or a life association,
Or some hints on emigration,
Or a looked-for explanation
Of a former altercation;
Retail changes lately made
In some wine and spirit trade;
Vows, professions, gift, or token,
Promises, or kept or broken:
Each and all, with double din,
Has the knocker usher'd in.

_At the corner place a scout,
For the vigilant police;
Let him keep a sharp look-out,
And, if need be, break the peace.
From the stone-jug free
Must our party be,
Though we keep so by a fight,
Or a witch-like flight by night._

He who knocks and runs away,
May live to knock another day.
Let caution, then, all mischief guide,
For fear some danger should betide.
With watchful eyes the boys advance,
Accomplishing a nigger dance,
Performed upon the paving-stones,
To sound of Ethiopian bones,
With air appropriate, from their store,
Of "Who dat knockin' at de door?"
Now, as they near the destined sill,
Hush'd are bones—the dance is still.
One mighty BANG! the servant scares,
And lifts the inmates from their chairs.
Away! Away! not one remains
When the sold maid the passage gains,
And, as the neighbourhood they quit,
Agree their knock has prov'd a hit.

_Hush! keep back! your chaffing cease,
Some one's steps are this way bent.
Is it one of the police?
No, 'tis but a tipsy gent,
Singing some night-song
As he reels along.
Now he turns the corner humming
That there is "A good time coming."_

The straw is lying in the square,
And cabs go by with muffled sound;
Whilst cautious hands no longer dare
To lift the knocker—leather bound.
Through the night
Burns a light
From the bedroom window's height,
As the angel of grim death
Hovers there on dusky wings,
To wait the passing breath
Quiv'ring through life's curdled springs.
Go, the mutes and mourners call,
Plumed hearse and heavy pall!
Head of that sad family
Tenant of the tomb shall be
Ere the ghastly week is o'er,
And the knocker sounds once more.

_See! the thoroughfare is clear,
Nothing in it but the lamps.
Now, look sharp! the door draw near,
Wrench the knocker from its clamps_
_Does it still resist?
Give a tougher twist.
Put your stick within the ring.
Now—with both hands—that's the thing!_

The sun is shining in the street,
The clock moves on from three to five.
The pavement glows with dazzling heat,
And all the West-end is alive.
The air with Bouquet-Royal laden,
Or Patchouli's oppressive herb,
Plays round the fair-haired high-born maiden,
Whose Clarence draws up at the kerb.
And now the knocker knows no quiet,
But revels in unceasing riot.
The flunkey first awakes the clang
With "_Rat-a-tat-tat, bang! bang!! bang!!!_"
The doctor greater care observes,
With temper'd knock for shaken nerves.
Next small tat-tat from frightened fingers
Of one in seedy black, who lingers
In fear and trembling at the door,
Before he dares to knock once more.
Professor he, of light guitar,
Or Polish master from afar,
Or poor relation come to claim
Some small aid due to blood and name.
All sorts of objects come and go,
Like some phantasmagoric show.
Patron or beggar, great or small,
The knocker is a lift to all.

_Hip! huzza! my artful dodgers,
It has fallen from the door.
But the noise has roused the lodgers,
Lights appear at every floor._
_If we stay we're done—
Vanish, every one!
As the poet sings, like bricks,
Cut your luckies and your sticks._

Those evening knocks! those evening knocks!
That herald in a paper box,
Which merchants leave with pens and soap;
And notes in which they humbly hope
You'll patronize the speculation,
And save their household from starvation—
Which if to do you're kindly willing,
They'll call to-morrow for the shilling.

_Joy! joy! joy! we're safe at last.
Where's the latch-key? Stand aside.
Luck be praised, the peril's past,
And we can our trophy hide!
Wasn't it a lark?
Hold hard, in the dark,
And the chairs and tables mind,
Till the lucifers I find._

——In! in with me,
Comrades all, and shut the door,
We will christen it once more.
STUNNER shall its new name be,
Trophy of our bravery!
Now we have in state enthroned it,
Drink the healths of those who own'd it,
Whom we've left, by sad mishap,
Really not worth a rap!
Now the festival begin:
Ope the oysters—Where's the gin?
From the closet have it out.
Here's the corkscrew—pass the stout.
Cruets, pickles, gin and water,
Bread, meat, butter, pipes, and porter,
On the table now we see;
Fastest of the fast we'll be.
Governors and landlord scorning,
We will not go home till morning!

RULES AND REGULATIONS FOR THE CONDUCT OF
STRANGERS VISITING LONDON.

If your health is proposed, you must say it is the proudest moment of your life.

You are not expected to take your hat in with you to dinner. It is liable to be kicked about if you put it under the table—people mistake it for the cat.

It is no longer the fashion to say, "Here's to you, miss," and "I drink to you, ma'am," to every lady round the table before you take a glass of wine; however, if you do it once, never repeat it.

When you begin a speech, you must be sure to state you are unaccustomed to public speaking.

Take your coat off in the hall, but never give up your umbrella. If the servant offers to take it down stairs to dry it, tell him to mind his own business; and if he says another word, threaten to report him to his missus, and he will soon be quiet. The robberies of umbrellas in London is something awful!

A University Chair of Music.
]

If you go to the opera don't call out for "Music!" or tell "Nosey," or any of the "catgut scrapers," to strike up. Be careful also not to insult the box-keeper, by giving him a penny to run and fetch a playbill. If you take a lady, dispense with the usual gallantry of a bag of oranges. Should you take any, however, it is usual to offer them to all the ladies round you—after you have peeled them.

It is no longer the fashion for a stranger to call at Buckingham Palace; but if there should be a Drawing Room, you had better go, by all means, and present your homage to your Sovereign, for otherwise it might look disrespectful. You have only to go in costume, with the sword and cocked hat, and send in your card, "with your compliments."

If you are invited out to dinner, you must refrain as much as you can from taking a snooze directly the cloth is removed; and you should be above drinking the warm water that is given you, in a blue bowl, for your fingers.

If you intend to dance, do not, as a matter of pride, fill your pockets with halfpence; and if you have a new pair of Berlins, put them on, and do not keep them folded up in your hands, as if you were too shabby to use them.

If Joseph Ady sends you an invitation, write back word that you will come and take tea with him. You will find him a good sovereign fellow, and you may probably hear of something to your advantage.

Shakspeare, after Curling.
]

Have your hair curled; but if you take a lady down to the refreshment-room, you must know her extremely well before you can presume to ask her if "she'll have a drop of beer," or else she will certainly be offended.

When you are leaving, supposing the servant at the door puts his hand out, shake it by all means, or else the poor fellow will fancy you are proud.

You are not bound to answer any public questions in the street, as to "Who are you?" or to put any stranger in possession of personal facts relating to "your mother."

If you are in doubt about a cab fare, or want to know some particular fact about the twopenny omnibuses, or the age of an actress, or a point at cribbage, or where the best glass of ale is to be had—write to the Duke of Wellington, and you will have an answer from the F. M. the same day.

You are not bound to go to every theatre, or to see every exhibition in London. In fact, please yourself, and do not stop in town a day longer than you choose; for you will find the "boots" generally very reluctant to call you the morning you intend to start. For better precaution, you had better shave over night, and tie a piece of string to your big toe for the policeman to pull the first thing in the morning.

THE DOMESTIC MANNERS AND
CUSTOMS OF THE BEDOUIN
ARABS.
BY ONE WHO HAS NEVER BEEN AMONGST
THEM, BUT CAN IMAGINE EXACTLY WHAT
THEY ARE.

Those Bedouins are curious fellows. You have heard of a race of Jumpers; well, they are a nation of Leapers. We walk, they fly. They are the bats of the human race—not men, and decidedly not angels, but something between the two.

Their houses have no windows lower than the third floor. This is to prevent little boys jumping up. Their windows are not arranged like ours, but have small apertures, like the slits in letter-boxes, slanting downwards, to prevent any one looking into them. Bricks are exceedingly dear, on account of the height of the walls.

A military review of Bedouin Arabs exceeds anything of the sort. At a given signal a whole battalion springs upwards, gets inextricably mingled in one dense flying column, and then falls down again, each man precisely in his previous position. They discharge their muskets when they reach a given height, and no accident ever occurs, unless a raw recruit happens to have sprained his ankle. Some of their light columns advance twelve feet deep; when I say twelve feet deep, of course I mean in the air.

_The Monster Sweeps_

"A Toss up for the Derby".
]

It is curious to see them in the streets. If the door is not open, they will take a flying leap through the window, like a harlequin. The first sign of intelligence a Bedouin child gives, is to leap straight out of its cradle. A lid is always placed over it, for the purpose of keeping it down; and when the lid is taken off the child flies out, like a living Jack-in-the-Box.

A steeplechase is with them literally a steeplechase. They have no horses, but clear churches, pillars, obelisks, everything that comes in their way, on foot.

Their animals have, in a smaller degree, the same agile propensities. When two cats dart up into the air, fighting, they are soon lost in the clouds, and you will hear them mollrowing above you for a long time; but I defy you to say, you ever saw _both_ of them come back.

When the Bedouins go out shooting they pursue the game in the air, and do not fire until they are right over the bird's back. It is a mean sport, however, which a real Bedouin gentleman is above doing. But their children catch sparrows easily, by putting salt upon their tails.

A Bedouin Arab does not give his hand in marriage, but his foot.

The Sheik blesses his people once a year. He springs from his balcony, and when he has reached the centre of the populace, he gives his blessing, so that he may fall equally on the heads of all his subjects; and then he springs back to his balcony, and the ceremony is concluded. One poor Sheik (Ben Allah Wishi Washi) had the gout, and could not do this. He tried to bless them in a balloon once, but the enraged populace would not have it, and tore it to pieces, amid loud cries of "Shame!" He was sentenced to wear tight boots for life—the most ignominious punishment that can be put upon one of Bedouin extraction.

Their postmen are let off from the post-office like pigeons—they drop the letters down the chimneys.

A BEDOUIN VESTRY MEETING.

Chairman—"Sons of Allah, the meeting is now up."
]

A meeting is adjourned very primitively. The chairman lifts his leg, and the whole meeting suddenly takes to its heels and springs into the air, like so many thousand frogs, and the next minute there is not one left.

Their dances are very lively. They generally take place in the open air, or else if they danced in a room, they would be knocking their heads every minute against the ceiling. To see them all take the same leap simultaneously, and _balancezing_ some fifty feet above the earth, is something so extraordinary, that it almost lifts you off your feet. No less extraordinary are their ballets. They are more like fire-works than any other exhibition; and you hear the loud exclamations of "O—o—h" escape from the crowd, when a _première danseuse_ takes a higher flight than usual. Their _grand pas_ are always watched through long telescopes, which are let out at the doors for six piastres a night.

A Bedouin duel will sometimes last for days, for it is always the object of the person who is to be shot to get out of the fire of his adversary, and thus they will go on jumping after one another over the whole kingdom for a week together.

Nurses toss their babies up in the air, and if they are slow in coming down, they jump up after them and fetch them.

I have heard of a game of _écarté_ being played, _à vol d'aigle_, some 15,000 feet above the level of the sea. The great dodge is to prevent your partner jumping up behind you to look over your cards.

Bedouin Royalty does not wear a crown, but a pair of spring-heeled jack-boots, and it is high treason for any one but the Sheik to put his foot into it.

The Bedouin Arabs are a cheerful people—their active life leads them to be hilarious. They are early risers, and are generally up with the lark. They are a volatile, but happy race; and it is very rarely you hear of a Bedouin Arab having corns. He will take up a bill, too, quicker than any man.

A BEDOUIN BAILIFF.
]

* * * * *

ENGLAND'S STREAM OF CHARITY.—We are told by the advertisement that "The Asylum for Distressed Sewers is always open." This asylum must surely be the Thames?

MOCKERY.—"I have learnt this profound truth," says Alderman Johnson, "from eating turtle, that it shows a most depraved taste to mock anything for its greenness."

PUBLIC COMMUNISM.—The only kind of Communism that is likely to go down in England is HALF-AND-HALF.

A DREADFUL CASE OF POISONING,
OR,
ANOTHER OF MY HUSBAND'S STUPID JOKES, WHICH HE THINKS ARE
SO CLEVER.

Didn't know which way to turn.
]

MY dear sir, if ever there was a miserable woman in this world, it is the poor creature who now takes up her pen to tell you how wretched she is. I have not slept a wink all night. I must tell you my husband is _dreadfully suspicious_, and so am I—and the best of women at times; but still I never could have suspected he would have suspected me in the abominable suspicious manner he has lately done. Will you believe it, sir, he declared last night that he could plainly see I wanted to "_pisen him_." The fact is, we had for supper some mushrooms and a lovely pie just warmed up with a little steak in it, for I thought I would give him a treat—and nicer mushrooms, or a tenderer steak, I think I never tasted in all my life—when what does my fine gentleman do but turn up his fine nose! Only first I must tell you that he ate a very 'arty supper, and had his whisky toddy all nice and comfortable—for I must have mixed him six glasses if I mixed him one—and smoked his pipe, though I have told him over and over again I would not allow any such filthy practices in my house, especially the parlour. But kindness is thrown away upon some men; for what does my Mr. Smellfungus do, but he turns round upon me, and because he feels a big pain in his side, accuses me on the spot of wishing to "_pisen him_." Those were his very words. Oh! that I should have lived to have heard them; but it is not the first time by ever so many that the suspicious creature has dared to turn round upon me in this bumptious manner. The first time he degraded himself in my eyes with these low suspicions was when he had been eating pies at Twickenham, and we were returning home in the steamer, when all of a sudden he called the whole cabin to witness that he was sure "_I had pisened him_." Oh, dear! I was so struck that I No, that I didn't; but I told him, once for all, if ever he dared to bring such a heavy charge against me I would make him pay for it dearly, that I would, even if it cost me my life. Here the _monster_ laughed, and dropt the poison, but he brought it up again soon afterwards; for I recollect it was on a Friday, and we had a most lovely giblet pie for dinner, though not a morsel as big as a pin's head could I touch, for I was busy all the while picking bones with my wretch of a husband, and I really thought I should have choked, I was in such a way with him. He had no sooner emptied the dish than he threw the "_pisen_" again in my face; and he did it also another time when we had a quince pie—and a nice delicious squince, in my eyes, is worth a Jew's eye any day; but my dainty lord and master could see nothing but _pisen_ at the bottom of it, and complained of cholera and pins and needles in his inside, and I don't know what else. So this morning I packed up my bandbox, and asked him boldly what he had got in his head lately? and that his low base suspicions had completely poisoned my existence, and that I would jump into the Thames as _sure as I was born_ sooner than be suspected any longer. When my brazen _monster_, who is known for not

STICKING AT TRIFLES,
]

draws his chair close up to mine, and laughs in my face, which made me so boil over that, in the heat of the moment, I threw the teapot at him, and then the slop-basin, and after that the milk-jug. I did not spare the crockery, or the brute either, for I was not going to be accused for nothing, I can tell you; but the more cups I broke, the more saucily he laughed, till the big drops ran down his fat face, and he asked me, with a nasty grin I didn't half like, "Whether I thought he belonged to a _burial_ society for nothing?"

Oh! sir, the truth flashed all at once across my two eyes, for I knew my husband had been reading these horrible newspapers lately, and I felt instinctively they had poisoned his mind, so I ran out of the house without my bonnet, and—will you believe it?—my hair still in curl-papers, and got into a cab, vowing I would never put my foot in it again until he had gone down upon his bended knees and confessed I was a poor injured wrongly-suspected woman. I would sooner be a widow at once than be thrown about in such a way. Oh! sir, I ask you if it is not infamous, after being married to a man these fifteen years and more, to be suspected of giving him his gruel with a spoonful of arsenic, and of wishing to hurry him out of this world on a nasty toadstool instead of a fine mush-room? But, sir, it's these infamous papers. I wish they were all burnt of a heap, for I can plainly trace every bit of my pretty Smellfungus's suspicions to those atrocious "POISONINGS IN ESSEX," which have lately given the public such a turn. Since they have been published, every husband suspects that his darling wife wishes to kill him in order to receive the filthy bonus for burying him. I cannot tell you how many poor suffering wives are separated at the present moment from their brutes of husbands because they have had this abominable poison flung in their teeth every day for the last two months. The poor _innocent injured dears_ of men dare not now for their lives take a single meal in their houses, for fear it should be their last! It's quarrelling with their own bread and butter, to say the very least of it.

I remain, sir, at my hotel (the "Two Magpies"), till my cruel good-for-nothing lord and master chooses to come and fetch me.

Yours, _in despair_, crying my eyes out,
AN INNOCENT, LOVING, BUT SHAMEFULLY
SUSPECTED WIFE, AND MOTHER OF
SIX LOVELY CHILDREN.

P.S.—Oh! sir, my husband has just been here, and tells me it was only meant as a joke—a pretty joke, indeed!—and that, as Hamlet says, he was only "_pisening_ in jest," for how could he help suspecting, when I gave him nothing but pies—beafsteak pies, eel pies, giblet pies, quince, and mince, and all sorts of pies—but that I regularly wanted to _pisen_ him! D'ye see—_pies_ and _pise_ning? I never heard such a joke! How men can make such donkeys of themselves I don't know! But I couldn't well be angry with the silly fellow, for he has brought me _such_ a beautiful shawl; and I need not tell you, sir, that in matrimony a lovely Cashmere hides a multitude of faults.

ONE WHO HAS A FINGER IN EVERYBODY'S PIE.
]

* * * * *

TEETOTALER'S TOAST.—"The worm of the still—may it soon be a still worm!"

A CRITIC.—A man who judges an author's works by the "errata."

VANITY.—There is not a mite in the world (says Lavater), but that thinks itself "quite the cheese."

FRIGHTFUL STATE OF THINGS,
IF FEMALE AGITATION IS ALLOWED ONLY FOR A MINUTE.

The standard of rebellion is first raised at a fashionable tea-party.

The rebels rush into the street, break open the public houses, and ask the men if they are not ashamed of themselves to be sitting there, whilst their poor dear wives are crying their eyes out at home?

Clubs are put down and a Petticoat Government proclaimed.

Armed patrols parade the streets, and take up every good-for-nothing husband that is found out after nine o'clock.

Total abolition of latch-keys.

All men proved to be "brutes," are taken to business in the morning by the Nurse, and fetched home at night by the Cook.

Those who offer the slightest resistance are put to mend their wives'
stockings.
]

The greatest reprobates are sentenced to sit up for their dear wives.
]

_The Happy Family._

"A Quiet Hint to the Wives of England"
]

The Lords of Creation are driven to the greatest extremities to enjoy a quiet pipe.

But if detected, they are immediately made public examples of, by being sent out to air the babies.

Those who resist the strong arm of the sex are immediately sent to the House of Correction, and put for fourteen days upon dirty linen.

If detected a second time, they are sentenced to a month's imprisonment, and hard labour at the mangle.

The most refractory are condemned to cold meat for life, without benefit of pickles.

The heartless ringleader is loaded with irons.

A member of the Royal Family only saves himself with a fine of twelve dozen bright pokers, and an Exchequer bond for one hundred steel fenders!

But human patience can endure it no longer, and the poor convicts endeavour to elude the vigilance of the watch, by smuggling themselves out amongst the clean linen.

The secret, however, is accidentally divulged by a criminal of great weight, who drops through the fragile clothes-basket.

The wretched criminals are carried away by the overpowering force of "Woman's Mission," and their precipitate folly only ends in their being floored at the bottom of the stairs, where, in aching shame, they lie and bite the dust.

Five thousand helpless husbands, whose only crime is their unfortunate sex, are incarcerated in the Thames Tunnel!

Not a glass of grog, or a newspaper, or a cigar is allowed them!!

Hundreds perish daily for the want of the common necessaries of life!!!

The Black Hole is beaten hollow!!!!

Frightful rush, and tremendous overflow in the Thames Tunnel, through an insane attempt of the Boy Jones to escape by the roof!!!!!

Those who are not drowned, go mad.

An armistice takes place between the opposing bodies. A member of the Coburg family offers his hand to Mrs. Gamp, but is indignantly rejected by the lovely widow.

The body of the "oldest inhabitant" is found at Herne Bay, where it is supposed he emigrated for safety.

_There is not a single man left_, excepting the Man in the Moon.

The ladies, being left to themselves, proceed to discuss their wrongs, when, after several years' arguments, the world is graced with

THE FEMALE MILLENNIUM.
]

This continues thirty years, when the argument is decided at length in favour of

THE LAST WOMAN,
]

Who compodges herself in honour of the occasion a nice dish of tea, and after propodging a toast to the memory of that blessed creature Mrs. Harris dies universally "regretted" on the throne of Buckingham Palace.

* * * * *

Richardson's ghost makes his last appearance at Greenwich Fair!!!

* * * * *

THE END OF THE WORLD!
AND OF
THE COMIC ALMANACK.
READER, YOU ARE REQUESTED TO DROP A TEAR!!!

* * * * *

TWO LITTLE CUTS THROWN IN.

THE NIGHTINGALE'S
JUG-JUG.

PORTRAIT OF A YOUNG GENTLEMAN AFTER DINNER ON CHRISTMAS DAY.
]

_Au revoir._
We meet again in 1850.

AS IT OUGHT TO BE—OR—THE LADIES TRYING A CONTEMPTIBLE SCOUNDREL for a
"BREACH of PROMISE."
]

THE
COMIC ALMANACK
FOR 1850.

BEFORE AND AFTER MARRIAGE.
]

BEFORE.

How do the Gentlemen do before marriage?— Oh, then they come flattering, Soft nonsense chattering, Praising your pickling, Playing at tickling, Love verses writing, Acrostics inditing. If your finger aches, fretting, Fondling, and petting, "My loving,"—"my doving," "Petseying,"—"wetseying." Now sighing, now dying, Now dear diamonds buying. Or yards of Chantilly, like a great big silly, Cashmere shawls—brandy balls, Oranges, apples—gloves, _Gros de Naples_. Sweet pretty "skuggies"—ugly pet puggies; Now with an ear-ring themselves endearing, Or squandering guineas upon _Sevignés_, Now fingers squeezing or playfully teasing, Bringing you bull's eyes, casting you sheep's eyes, Looking in faces while working braces; Never once heeding what they are reading, But soiling one's hose by pressing one's toes; Or else so zealous, and nice and jealous of all the fellows— Darting fierce glances if ever one dances with a son of France's; Or finding great faults, and threatening assaults whenever you "valtz;" Or fuming and fussing enough for a dozen if you romp with your cousin; Continually stopping, when out a-shopping, and bank-notes dropping, Not seeking to win money, calling it "tin" money, and promising pin-money; Liking picnics at Twickenham, off lovely cold chicken, ham, and champagne to quicken 'em; Detesting one's walking without John too goes stalking, to prevent the men talking; Think you still in your teens, wont let you eat "greens," and hate Crinolines; Or heaping caresses, if you curl your back tresses, or wear low-neck'd dresses; Or when up the river, almost sure to _diskiver_ that it beats all to shiver the sweet Guadalquiver;

Or seeing death-fetches if the, toothache one catches, making picturesque sketches of the houses of wretches; Or with loud double knocks bring from Eber's a box, to see "BOX AND COX," or pilfer one's locks to mark their new socks; Or, whilst you are singing a love song so stinging, they vow they'll be swinging, or in Serpentine springing, unless to them clinging you'll go wedding-ringing, and for life mend their linen. Now the gentlemen sure I've no wish to disparage, But this is the way they go on _before_ marriage.

AFTER.

How do the Gentlemen do after marriage?— Oh, then nothing pleases 'em, But everything teases 'em; Then they're grumbling and snarling— You're a "fool" not a "darling;" Though they're rich as the _Ingies_, They're the stingiest of stingies; And what is _so_ funny, They've _never_ got money; Only ask them for any And they haven't a penny; But what passes all bounds, On themselves they'll spend pounds— Give guineas for lunch Off real turtle and punch; Each week a noise brings about, when they pitch all the things about; Now bowing in mockery, now smashing the crockery; Scolding and swearing, their bald heads tearing; Storming and raging past all assuaging. Heaven preserve us! it makes one so nervous, To hear the door slam to, be called simple Ma'am too: (I wonder if Adam called Mrs. Eve Madam;) As a matter of course they'll have a divorce; Or "my Lord Duke" intends to send you home to your friends: Allow ten pounds a quarter for yourself and your daughter; Though you strive all your might you can do nothing right; While the maids—the old song—can do nothing wrong; "Ev'ry shirt wants a button!" Every day they've cold mutton; They're always a-flurrying one, or else they're a-hurrying one, or else they're a-worrying one; Threatening to smother your dear sainted Mother, or kick your big Brother; After all your fine doings, your strugglings and stewings—why, "the house is in ruins!" Then the wine goes like winking, and they cannot help thinking you've taken to drinking; They're perpetually rows keeping, 'cause out of the house-keeping they're in bonnets their spouse keeping; So when they've been meated, if with pies they're not treated, they vow that they're cheated; Then against Ascot Races, and all such sweet places, they set their old faces;

And they'll never leave town, nor to Broadstairs go down, though with bile you're quite brown; For their wife they unwilling are, after cooing and billing her, to stand a cap from a Milliner—e'en a paltry twelve shillinger; And it gives them the vapours to witness the capers of those bowers and scrapers the young linendrapers; Then to add to your woes, they say nobody knows how the money all goes, but they pay through the nose for the dear children's clothes; Though you strive and endeavour, they're so mightily clever, that please them you'll never, till you leave them for ever—yes! the hundredth time sever—"_for ever_—AND EVER"!! Now the gentlemen sure I've no wish to disparage, But this is the way they go on _after_ marriage.

"I SINK YOU DID SAY, MADAME, YOU SHALL TAKE VON COBBLARE AND A LEETEL
BEESHOFE TO FOLLOW."
]

ANACREONTIC
IN PRAISE OF "SHERRY COBBLERS,"
BY
A LADY OF QUALITY.