Chapter XIX: Part II (13)

"There was a sound of revelry by night,"
(In fact the neighbours couldn't sleep a wink)
Mingled with that of double knocks, and slight
Remarks from coachmen, overcome with drink,
Not indispensable to our narration,
And totally unfit for publication.

There came a knock—a double-treble rap,
That startled all the square from its propriety,
Made Fanny Thompson scream and cling,
To Captain Smith (the artful thing!)
As in a _deux temps_ round they flew,
(The _Prima Donna_, best of the variety);
Shook the gold oats in Lady Boozle's cap;
Sent Charley Finch in Lucy Lightfoot's lap,
(The rogue had stayed there, but he knew
The folks would talk—quite proper too);
Checked Jeames in an upstair-ward rush,
And with a tray of lemonade,
Fantastic maps of England made
Upon his whilom spotless plush.
(He was discharged next day for insobriety)—
Made Croop revoke;
Brown's only joke,
Arrested ere 'twas said;
His only chance that ev'ning dish'd,
Oh! how he wish'd
To punch that brazen-knocker's lion head.

The circling throng,
Stooping to catch Miss Jenny Linnet's song—
The feeble quavers heard no more.
The knock had quite upset them all,
Sing, Jenny, more than ever small!
In vain thy chirping notes outpour;
Gone is thy light of other days,
One chorus now all voices raise
Of "Who dat knocking at de door?"

"Who can it be?
It must be somebody of some pretension:"
All flock to see
The Great Announced, or hear the footman mention
The name of one, whose birth or prosp'rous dealings
Have given him the true patrician right
Of disregarding other people's feelings.
"A city knight?

_Will you be—our Vis à Vis?_——
]

A peer—a minister—a pure Caucasian,
Who has contrived to solve the myst'ry Asian,
Of gaining millions to downright satiety?
The Smythsons see extremely good society!"

The fever waxes hotter,
When enter James,
Who coldly names—
"Mr. and Mrs. Trotter."

Each grey-beard thinks himself a boy again,
And feels inclined to bellow, "Ah-bal-loon!"
Two strange round figures up the staircase strain,
Each like a Lord-Rosse telescopic moon;
With difficulty is the doorway pass'd.
Come! Mrs. Smythson's rooms are full at last.

Full! there's no moving—Mrs. Trotter's skirt
Covers the whole saloon, and Trotter's tie,
(Which Jones—that very oddest fish—
Says is a tie that he could wish
Had bound the Trotter to his home)
In rigid folds on either side
A yard away, and quite as wide,
In search of mischief seems to roam—
With menaced hurt,
Mutely advising each to mind his eye.

And Trotter's sleeve!
Each sleeve would hold two Trotters and a half in it:
One might believe
He'd had it made to hide himself and laugh in it;
And of his pantaloons, the spacious work
Would stamp him as the extra great Grand Turk,
But (what might cause _that_ theory to totter)
No harem of the grandest kind
Could be constructed room to find
For _two_ sultanas such as Mrs. Trotter.

On! sweeping all
Before them like the hay in time of mowing,
Upsetting chairs and tables in the way;
The ornaments, by Mrs. T.'s _bouquet_
(Of peonies and dahlias all a-blowing)
Brush'd from the mantelpieces, fall;
The fiddlers into corners crouch;
The guests away in dudgeon slouch,
As from the hunter's spear shrink otters,
Impalement on the tie of Trotter fearing—
Into back rooms and closets disappearing.
The halls are empty, Empty—pshaw!
Fill'd—as a new-dined turkey's craw,
By the triumphant and expansive Trotters.

"Now really, Trotter" (Smythson from the door—
He couldn't enter), "tell me what this means.
I'm glad to see you—no one could be more;
But still in good society—these scenes—
You're a good fellow—no one could be better—
I know how very deeply I'm your debtor;
Still, you ought not—
You know that I invited you (I told you)
Purely from the esteem in which I hold you;
And as a wish to come your wife express'd,
I couldn't well refuse; but still, this jest—"
Says Trotter, "What?"

"What? why, my guests are going, every one."
"My eyes," says Trotter, "is the game all finished?
Well, blow me! there's been precious little fun—"
"It isn't that—'tis you who have diminished
The evening's pleasure." "We! well, that's a droll 'un;
We as come here resolved to go the whole 'un—"

"But think—so strangely dress'd!
Yourself a full-sail'd ship—your wife St. Paul's,—
A little _outré_, it must be confess'd—"
"Well, I'll be blest!"
Exclaim'd the wondering Trotter, "but I calls
That out-and-out. D'ye mean to say that this is
Wot ain't the reg'lar thing? Just hear him, missis!
After the many hog, bull, bob, and tanner
We've spent to get puffed out in this here manner!
It's his own words—I'll keep him to it!
Didn't you say we couldn't come unless
We came togg'd out in regular FULL DRESS?
What—yes?
_Well, then, we thought we'd do it._"

A GREAT MISTAKE.

To suppose that the American heroes, planning the Lone Star expedition against Cuba, have any deeply-rooted antipathy to SPANISH.

_A Pack of Knaves, or A "Packed" meeting of the "Knowing Cards" of the
Betting-Shop interest to consider & adopt the best Shuffling Tricks
to carry on their Game! A humble attempt in the "Pre Raphael" Style
by George Cruikshank._
]

MYSTERIES OF PARIS,
TOTALLY UNEXPLAINED, BY A REGULAR BRITON.

In the first place, I should like to know what they mean by wearing those enormous fur hats? They may be an intelligent people. All I know is—I never saw such a set of muffs as they look in all my life. And such tight trousers! reducing the legs of Young France to next to nothing, and presenting an appearance of top-heaviness that is absolutely uncomfortable to contemplate. They talk of their stable government! The heads of the nation could never have been in a more tottering condition than they seem now—and I don't see how things can possibly go on long on such a slender footing.

Why should such a difference exist between the civil and military states? I have heard a great deal of the admirable discipline of the French army; but in a great many regiments there appears to be no recognisable head worth speaking of. Quite the contrary. Are we indeed to believe the scandal that all the boasted cares and energies of the saviours of France have only been directed to the basest ends?

This is the baker! The circular article he holds in his right hand is a loaf! So is the longitudinal ditto in his left! I am at a loss to account for the singular expedients resorted to by the French for making their bread. It is true that one species possesses the great recommendation, to the heads of families, of going a very long way. But, on the contrary, the other is a description of food which the smallest child could get through in no time.

This gentleman is supposed to be conducting himself in this remarkable manner from an excess of enjoyment and high spirits; the French, generally, being supposed to be a gay and light-hearted people. Does a close inspection of the expression of the gentleman's countenance, in the height of his hilarity, warrant either supposition? Would it not rather be thought that he is performing a terrible act of penance for some sin that can never be wholly expiated?

They have policemen in Paris, I suppose. Indeed I know they have. Why, then, is so strong a detachment of the military necessary to conduct that little boy to prison? Is it that the civil officers are less to be trusted with a service of danger than our own gallant Blues, or that juvenile delinquency exists in France to an extent unknown in our favoured clime?

Who is _he_, I wonder!!!
]

I should like to know why the French can't allow their trees to grow as they like, instead of cropping and clipping them, like so many whiskers on the face of Nature. These singular-looking ter-restrial spheres, planted in square tubs, in the Luxembourg Gardens, I am told are orange-trees. Very good. Their resemblance to oranges is certainly striking. I should be happy to accept their appropriate rotundity as a precedent for the invariable rule (as having an instructive tendency), but that, on inspection, I do not find the neighbouring groves to consist of pear-trees as, judging from appearances, I was induced to imagine.

The French, I am told, down to the lowest grades of society, are proverbial for their gallantry and consideration for the fair sex. Appearances are certainly deceptive; but there is no trusting to them in Paris. For instance, these individuals, I have ascertained, belong to the class _ouvrier_:—

To avoid the slightest mistake, I have hunted up the dictionary meaning of that word. I find it to be _homme qui travaille—industriel_.

They are certainly a strange race. How anybody can sleep, with gentlemen parading the streets about a hundred at a time, before daybreak, and continuing their what's-his-name's tattoo every ten minutes, is a puzzler.

How anybody can sleep with _these_ gentlemen—is another question!

HARMLESS ACCOMPANIMENT TO MR. CRUIKSHANK'S
PLATE ON THE OPPOSITE PAGE.

A friend of ours (had we been writing in the last century, we should have said a wag), was expressing himself in terms of the highest indignation with, or rather without, respect to his shoe-maker for presuming to emigrate to Australia, on the pitiful plea that he (our friend) was the only customer he had left. We remarked that we could see nothing reprehensible in his conduct—especially as all his former patrons had deserted him. "What are his former patrons to me?" exclaimed our friend; "I am the only one remaining to him—and a cobbler _ought to stick to his last_."

We laughed. Gentle reader, drop a smile if you can possibly manage it.

"_There's Nothing like Leather_"—
]

WANTED, A DIBDIN.
APPLY TO THE FIRST LORD OF THE ADMIRALTY.

We hear a great deal of the prevalence of discontent in the navy. It is said that the sailors are constantly grumbling at the way they are treated, in the matter of unwholesome food and unsafe ships.

A great many suggestions have been offered as to the best remedy for this evil. Some weak-minded practical persons have proposed fresh provisions and new ships.

We propose a DIBDIN!

It is a notorious fact, that the late Charles Dibdin, during the war, did the State great service by his sea songs, which had the effect of persuading the British sailor that fighting was a very jolly thing; that Frenchmen ought to (and might easily) be exterminated; and that all the unpleasantness of a tempest might be satisfactorily overcome by climbing up into the rigging and thinking of an absent Sue or Polly.

Why not employ a competent person to do something of the same kind in the present day? It would be much better to reconcile the British seaman to existing hardship, than to encourage a mutinous and dissatisfied spirit. Of course, we put removing the difficulty out of the question, as totally opposed to all precedent.

We annex a specimen or two of the sort of thing on which the proposed salt-water laureate might be advantageously employed.

Go, patter to lubbers and swabs, do you see,
About dainties, and stews, and the like—
A chunk of salt horse and some biscuit give me,
And it isn't at maggots I'll strike.
Avast! and don't think me a milksop so soft,
To be taken by trifles aback,
What would turn a fine gentleman's nose up aloft
Will be quite good enough for poor Jack.

Or in this style:—

Come all ye jolly sailors bold,
Who life as next to nothing hold,
While English glory I unfold,
Huzza for the Arethusa!
She is a frigate quite used up,
Leaky and cracked as an old tea-cup
Her sides are thin,
And the rot's got in;
So if your dauntless pluck you'd show
Now is your time a cruise to go
On board of the Arethusa

THE VULTURE:
AN ORNITHOLOGICAL STUDY.
AFTER THE LATE EDGAR A. POE.

The Vulture is the most cruel, deadly, and voracious of birds of
prey. He is remarkable for his keen scent, and for the tenacity with
which he invariably clings to the victim on whom he has fixed his
gripe. He is not to be shaken off whilst the humblest pickings
remain. He is usually to be found in an indifferent state of
feather.—_New Translation of Cuvier._

Once upon a midnight chilling, as I held my feet unwilling O'er a tub of scalding water, at a heat of ninety-four; Nervously a toe in dipping, dripping, slipping, then outskipping, Suddenly there came a ripping, whipping, at my chambers door. "'Tis the second floor," I mutter'd, "flipping at my chambers door— Wants a light—and nothing more!"

Ah! distinctly I remember, it was in the chill November, And each cuticle and member was with influenza sore; Falt'ringly I stirr'd the gruel, steaming, creaming o'er the fuel, And anon removed the jewel that each frosted nostril bore, Wiped away the trembling jewel that each redden'd nostril bore— Nameless here for evermore!

And I recollect a certain draught that fann'd the window curtain Chill'd me, fill'd me with the horror of two steps across the floor, And, besides, I'd got my feet in, and a most refreshing heat in, To myself I sat repeating—"If I answer to the door— Rise to let the ruffian in who seems to want to burst the door, I'll be ——" that and something more.

Presently the row grew stronger; hesitating then no longer, "Really, Mister Johnson, blow it!—your forgiveness I implore, Such an observation letting slip, but when a man's just getting Into bed, you come upsetting nerves and posts of chambers door, Making such a row, forgetting"—Spoke a voice beyond the door: "'Tisn't Johnson"—nothing more.

Quick a perspiration clammy bathed me, and I uttered "Dammy!" (Observation wrested from me, like the one I made before) Back upon the cushions sinking, hopelessly my eyes, like winking, On some stout for private drinking, ranged in rows upon the floor, Fix'd—and on an oyster barrel (full) beside them on the floor, Look'd and groan'd, and nothing more.

Open then was flung the portal, and in stepp'd a hated mortal, By the moderns call'd a VULTURE (known as _Sponge_ in days of yore), Well I knew his reputation! cause of all my agitation— Scarce a nod or salutation changed, he pounced upon the floor; Coolly lifted up the oysters and some stout from off the floor, Help'd himself, and took some more.'

Then this hungry beast untiring fix'd his gaze with fond admiring On a piece of cold boil'd beef I meant to last a week or more, Quick he set to work devouring—plates, in quick succession, scouring— Stout with every mouthful show'ring—made me ask, to see it pour, If he quite enjoy'd his supper, as I watch'd the liquid pour; Said the Vulture, "Never more."

Much disgusted at the spacious _vacuum_ by this brute voracious Excavated in the beef—(he'd eaten quite enough for four)— Still, I felt relief surprising when at length I saw him rising, That he meant to go surmising, said I, glancing at the door— "Going? well, I wont detain you—mind the stairs and shut the door——" "Leave you, Tomkins!—never more."

Startled by an answer dropping hints that he intended stopping All his life—I knew him equal to it if he liked, or more— Half in dismal earnest, half in joke, with an attempt at laughing, I remarked that he was chaffing, and demanded of the bore, Ask'd what this disgusting, nasty, greedy, vile, intrusive bore Meant in croaking "Never more?"

But the Vulture not replying, took my bunch of keys, and trying Sev'ral, found at length the one to fit my private cupboard door; Took the gin out, fill'd the kettle; and, with a _sang froid_ to nettle Any saint, began to settle calmly down the grate before, Really as he meant departing at the date I named before, Of never, never more!

Then I sat engaged in guessing what this circumstance distressing Would be likely to result in, for I knew that long before Once (it served me right for drinking) I had told him that if sinking In the world, my fortunes linking to his own, he'd find my door Always open to receive him and it struck me now that door He would pass p'raps never more!

Suddenly the air was clouded, all the furniture enshrouded With the smoke of vile tobacco—this was worse than all before; "Smith!" I cried (in not offensive tones, it might have been expensive, For he knew the art defensive, and could costermongers floor); "Recollect it's after midnight, _are_ you going?—mind the floor." Quoth the Vulture, "Never more!"

"Smith!" I cried (the gin was going, down his throat in rivers flowing), "If you want a bed, you know there's quite a nice hotel next door, Very cheap. I'm ill—and, joking set apart, your horrid smoking Irritates my cough to choking. Having mentioned it before, Really, you should not compel one—_Will_ you mizzle—as before?" Quoth the Vulture, "Never more!"

"Smith!" I cried, "that joke repeating merits little better treating For you than a condemnation as a nuisance and a bore. Drop it, pray, it isn't funny; I've to mix some rum and honey— If you want a little money, take some and be off next door; Run a bill up for me if you like, but _do_ be off next door." Quoth the Vulture, "Never more!"

"Smith!" I shriek'd—the accent humbler dropping, as another tumbler I beheld him mix, "be off! you drive me mad—it's striking four. Leave the house and something in it; if you go on at the gin, it Wont hold out another minute. Leave the house and shut the door— _Take your beak from out my gin, and take your body through the door!_" Quoth the Vulture, "Never more!"

And the Vulture never flitting—still is sitting, still is sitting, Gulping down my stout by gallons, and my oysters by the score; And the beast, with no more breeding than a heathen savage feeding, The new carpet's tints unheeding, throws his shells upon the floor. And his smoke from out my curtains, and his stains from out my floor, Shall be sifted never more!

A DOMESTIC TRAGEDY;

_Being the Result of over Female Emigration, and the Impossibility of
obtaining Female Servants._

(For _mise en scène_, decorations, and cast of characters, see Plate
opposite.)

MRS. PIPER (_superintending the chops and neglecting her punctuation_)— "Oh dear, dear, dear! it's enough to drive anybody crazy with all the trouble I've had with the huzzies the nasty good-for-nothing, idle, lazy—the wicked presumptuous bad creatures, to think of their taking such a start. Don't talk to me, Piper; it's the fault of you men for taking their part. Can't blame them indeed for wanting to better their situations!—of course my servants were _very_ ill used I understand your insinuations. No doubt it's a treat to you to see your poor wife made into a slave—not that there's any novelty in that I wish I was in my grave!—melted to death and getting into such a mess with the chances _I_ have of even getting a new dress—at those dratted chops for you to guzzle. If you had the feelings of a man, you'd do something to help me. Oh! I daresay you're doing all you can—a pretty kettle of fish you're making of the Irish stew. Ah! there goes the poker on to the plates— don't tell me—you do it on purpose—you do. I didn't say you touched the poker but you do all you can to flurry me in one way or other—Tom, you naughty, unfeeling boy, how dare you join in the conspiracy against your poor mother? If your father's burnt you, it's just like him go and rub your hand with soap—though you'll be clever to find it—Yes—Mr. Piper, you're satisfied now, I hope—with your institutions and lectures and South Australia panoramas I wish Mr. Prout and all the rest of the wretches at the Polytechnic were pounded to death with sledge-hammers— putting notions of emigration into the heads of a set of brazen faces— but they've been a great deal too well treated, or they would not have had time to go to such places; and those newspapers talking about their rights and freedom if they'd minded their work they wouldn't have had time to read 'em. In my poor dear mother's time, no servant could get a place who knew how to read. Ought to be treated like human beings? a pretty story, indeed! I know what you mean Piper you needn't try to keep your gravity—but they were always thinking of husbands and settling in life or some such depravity.

_Scarcity of Domestic Servants—or Every Family their own Cooks!!!_——

_Being Verifications of our Prognostications in 1851—upon the subject
of Over Female Emigration!_
]

"Arabella and Jane you idle things don't stand staring there, but go and lay the cloth before your father begins to swear. All the tumblers are broken? Well, to be sure, I might have expected _that_ but I'm astonished at _you_ Arabella for daring to tell me it was the cat. If it was that minx, Jemima—yes, I see very well, Mr. Piper that we _don't_ get on as well without her as if I wanted her to go, the viper! when she knew the whole comfort of the family depended on her staying to be off to Australia the ungrateful thing she deserves flaying. With the beautiful kitchen she had only she never took a pride in it let alone seven pounds a year and her tea found with sugar beside in it. But of course madam must have a farm and want to be some scamp's wife—never thinking what I've to get through with my two poor girls to settle in life. Jane bring a dish this minute do. What! do you mean to say there's only one and that's cracked, on the shelf? Well, I've done all human nature can do, Mr. Piper you may get your dinner yourself. If the chops are black I can't help it well you needn't mention it—I see—if there's one on the floor you may pick it up. Ah! I knew how it would be. The gridiron's tumbled over with what I've to go through, how can you expect me to attend to it? I've not been used to this sort of thing the chimney's on fire and there's an end to it. The house must be burnt down. Oh yes! call the police, but you may call for ever if you find a policeman now all the servants have gone to Australia, all I say is you'll be clever."

[_Scene closes._

ANSWER TO CORRESPONDENTS.

SNIKMIT.—Your conundrum was received in 1846, and has been in type
ever since. We shall probably be able to find room for it in the
course of a few years. Do not be impatient. We have all had our
beginnings.

WALTER THE DOUBTER.—The circulation of the _Comic Almanack_ is eight
millions. The editor's salary is ten thousand a year. But these
things are not done for money.

J.—Your offer has had our most careful consideration. We fear that a
novel in ten books, each containing eighty chapters, to be
published at the rate of a chapter per year, will scarcely suit
our publication. It would be difficult to sustain the interest for
so long a period and at such considerable intervals.

WORRIT.—There are three thousand and ninety-five editions of _Uncle
Tom's Cabin_ published. It is estimated that every adult Briton
has purchased nine copies of that remarkable work and read them
all.

JULIANETTA says she could love us madly if she could make up her
mind to believe that we don't dye our whiskers. We do.

RUM DICKEY assures us he is just the fellow for our money. He is
very clever at finding out conundrums; knows three comic songs;
and has a friend who is intimate with an Ethiopian serenader. We
will think of it.

WALKINSHAW.—Our pay is nineteen and sixpence per line for prose—two
guineas for verse; only we don't accept contributions.

WAPSHOT informs us that he has occupied all his leisure hours for
the last twelve months in trying to find out the rebus, signed
"Lilly," in last year's _Comic Almanack_. He hopes, after all the
trouble he has taken, we will not publish any other answer to it
till his arrives. We pledge him our honour.

ENQUIROS wishes us to inform him the day of the month, and in what
year, Julius Cæsar landed in Britain; the number of lines in the
_Iliad_; what we consider the best receipt for tartar in the
teeth; whether Mrs. Glover ever played Ophelia or not in early
life—and if she did, at what theatre, and to whose Rosencrantz;
how he had better set to work to obtain a commission in the army
without interest; if A pegs one too many by accident, has B a
right to score four; which year's volume of the _Little Warbler_
we would recommend for general purposes, in preference to the
others; and if we know of a good shop for elastic trousers.
Perhaps some of our readers will oblige him with an answer.

ADVERTISEMENTS.

NO MORE MOSQUITOES! CATCH 'EM ALIVE!—To destroy these noxious insects, the scourge of an English summer, use Wilkinson's EXTRACT OF UPAS, prepared only by him at his plantations, Hampstead Heath, and sold (with directions) by all respectable chemists, in bottles, at 1_s._ 1½_d._, 2_s._ 9_d._, and 4_s._

* * * * *

THE PALMS, PECKHAM.—Delightful Family Residence to BE LET, immediately; consisting of six rooms (all snake-proof), flat roof, with verandah; capable of making up five beds, stable for two camels, hippopotamus sty, ostrichry, slave shed, and the usual offices. Apply personally to Mr. JUKES, 14, Chancery Lane, any morning before sunrise.

* * * * *

AN ENGLISH SUN AND AN ENGLISH SKY.

An English sun and an English sky,
Tally hi ho! hi ho, boys!
About this time, in the hot July,
Themselves begin to show, boys.
The former fierce, and the latter hot,
As Coleridge says, like copper;
But a different state of affairs would not
Be seasonable or proper!

What should we do when the sun and sky.
Tally hi ho! hi ho, boys!
Bake us to death, should we yet say die?
Certainly not, we know, boys!
Let us be brave, and the heat to face,
Be off, despondency loathing,
To MOSES AND SONS' and our forms encase
In appropriate summer clothing.

* * * * *

THE ORIGINAL MONSTER MARTS of E. MOSES & SONS, established upwards of 150 years, supply the public with the following articles of national and seasonable attire, at the lowest possible prices:—

Complete Nankeen Suit £1 5 0
Plantain Hat 0 4 9
Barege Shirts, per dozen 1 3 0

A small quantity of book-muslin great-coats, remaining on hand since the last severe winter, are being disposed of at an alarming sacrifice.

* * * * *

WANT PLACES.
ALL COMMUNICATIONS TO BE POST PAID.

AS SNAKE-CHARMER IN A SERIOUS FAMILY.—A native, recently converted by the missionaries, from Timbuctoo. No objection to look after a camel, and make himself generally useful. Apply to J—n Sm—th, 6, Jaguar Place, Broad Street.

* * * * *

A STOUT, ACTIVE MAN, an experienced driver—to look after a Nigger. Address P. Q., Elephant and Castle.

TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES

1. Added Table of Contents. 2. Converted all asterisk (***) ellipses to modern (...) ellipses. 3. Added anchor for unanchored footnote [8] on p. 273. 4. Continued practice of adding month and year where they occur at the top of pages from volume 1. However, the practice was discontinued after 1844. 5. Silently corrected simple spelling, grammar, and typographical errors. 6. Retained anachronistic and non-standard spellings as printed. 7. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. 8. Enclosed bold font in =equals=.

End of Project Gutenberg's The Comic Almanack, Volume 2 (of 2), by Various