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The Comic Almanack, Volume 1 / An Ephemeris in Jest and Earnest, Containing Merry Tales, Humerous Poetry, Quips, and Oddities cover

The Comic Almanack, Volume 1 / An Ephemeris in Jest and Earnest, Containing Merry Tales, Humerous Poetry, Quips, and Oddities

Chapter 181: A STIRRING TIME.
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About This Book

The volume collects annual almanac-style material—satirical sketches, comic essays, mock-astrological pieces, humorous verse, and brief narrative vignettes—assembled as a running sequence of yearly numbers. Multiple contributors supply witty sayings, droll observations, and recurring columns, all accompanied by hundreds of woodcuts and engraved plates by prominent illustrators. The pieces alternate light parody and sharper social satire, using playful formats, topical jokes, and caricatured scenes to amuse readers across varied short items.

Harper.

Bowman.

Platt.

Cooke.

A PROMENADE CONCERT.

Harper and Beau-man, and Platt and Cooke,
I bring you into this comical book;
Just as I've seen you blowing so hard,
At your own original Strand Prom'nade!
Harper, you're no harper at all;
A harper sings as he rattles his strings;
You don't meddle with any such things:
Your strings are your lungs, with their brazen tongues;
If men don't like your play—they may lump it;
But you beat, you know, the world at a blow,
And it can't play a trick but you're sure to trump-it!
Beau-man! Bowman! I tell you what,
If you are a bowman I'll be shot,
From a narrow chest you do not sigh;
No quiver have you, and no big bull's eye;
Yet with your long bassoon so deep,
Through passages many you're heard to sweep:
Some of them light, and some of them dark,
And, whatever their measure, you hit your mark.
Platt! Platt! I can't stand that—
To call you Platt is both rude and raw,
Just as if you were a man of straw,
Or a twister of hair, or a man at a hell,
Playing the part of a Bonnetter well.
No, no; that is no go;
The public never will let it be so:
You are a navigator born,
And all your life will be rounding Cape Horn;
Your sails will be full of fair wind to the last,
And there's no one more perfectly used to the blast!
Cooke! Cooke! you comical elf,
You never dress'd anything but yourself;
You are no Cook, sir, although, by your fun,
I've known some few people most thoroughly done;
You are "first hautboy," a tried and a true,
And what pleasant hours I owe, boy, to you!

Low note.

High note.

Sharp.

Flat.

A flourish of Trumpets.

OCTOBER—"A Drive in Drury lane."

LONDON LIONS.

"To mister wilyam Waters gardner to squire Brakenhurst, Pipe uppon trent
staffordsheer.
"Deer Wilyam,

"i now Take up my cast mettle pen & ink to inform yew that i arived safe in lundun by the Hup train without bean Blowd to attoms, haveing proffidenshally tuk my plase in a fust clas carige, wich the charges is for bean Blew to bits in a 2nd class twenty shilin & bean Only yewr arm broke in the fust clas 30 shilin. Allso their is a 3rd clas lately aded, wear in adision yew may catch a Bad cold & rewmatisum for life for the smal charge of 14 shilin. But to return to ariving in lundun, my i! it is a rare plase. Off its size yew may juge wen i tel yew i have Bean hear a weak & hav not yet seed awl, But i hav seen a grate menny wunders—plays & conserts & cosmyrammers & diarammers & call-and-see-ems & one think or anuther. But i wish i had cum herlier in the seson, ass threw the fog i hav Mist a gud dele.

"Ass naturaly xpex i 1st pade my cumplements to Sent Pawl: it is a Bewtifull bilding—only the lower ½ wich yew carnt sea for the sut & the hupper ½ wich yew carnt sea for the fog. Leastways such was the case the day i was their: allso the Same afterwoods at West minster aby, partickly the poets korner bean quite cuvverd with Rhyme. And appropo i doant advize strangers to vissit lundun like me by the Gide buke, ass i found the disadvarntige of taking the lions ass they ar set down, namely 1st goin to Sent Pawls, then to West minster aby, then to sent Marys witechappel then to sent Looks chelsy & cettera. And the same of uther xibisions, ass from axual xperiance canot recummend going from the sologgicle gardns in the regensy park to the sologgicles in the Sorry side, & then to the diarammer & then to the tems tunnel.

"But to return to sent Pawls, i went inside & was lost in Asstonishment, partickly at the smal space ass is aloud for servess, wich deer wilyam, it is just ass if at Trent hall master was to shut up the Drawing rume, & the dining rume & the liberary & the sirvents awl & so forth & only live in the Butlers pantry. After lissenin to the singin for about ¾ of a nour i axt 2 off the beetles as was crawling about wen theyde begin to pray, but insted off replying the 2 blak beetles busted their selves out a laffin & ran off like Devvles coach orses.

"My next vissit was Doory lane, which is the 1st Inglish theater going——for frensh fidlers and Jerman orn bloers. The musick was verry Bewtifull, partickly the basune, which quite went to my art, & put me in mind off Deer ome & the grene feelds & meddows & evrythink—it was so like the cryin of a yung carf that had Lost its muther. Wat aded verry hi to the Afect off the musik was the yung gentel men & ladys a beatin time with there walkin stix & umberrellows, wich aded to sum Humming the hair and uthers a marching about exact to the tune rely shows wat may be Dun in such a plase ass lundun & ow sirvissable sich things is to improve the Nashonal taste. Allso the same of dres, wich it cumbines the hellegancys off a maskerade & fancy bawl, menny of the yung men bean Drest in the karecters of plowmen with smok froks & cettera, and uthers like hakny coach men & homynibus cads, and sum Disgized in likker. Allso it is verry pleesing to sea how atentif the yung men ar to the percedings, for even if a lady cums in during the performense they woant so much ass Stir from there seats—for feerd off Disturbing the musik.

"Next morning i went to take a walk in covven Gardin, but was verry disapinted, insted off finding it Lade out in gravvel walks & flour beds, edged with box and twiggy hosiery, was ful of shops & grate lung gallerys, & insted off at 1 end a Prety litel arber like ware i ust to sit corting yewr Deer sister mary is nuthink but a Grate church with a luminated clok & a lot of grave stones lying about.

"Allso, deer wilyam, i musent forget the briges. they ar realy Wunderfull & ass for the arches i nevver sea sich Archery in awl my Days. But Wat yew woodent Like is makeing yew pay tol, just ass if yew was a hoss or a has, only with this difrance, not alowing yew to cum Bak the same day without paing afresh, which the 1st time i went over Waterloo brige i ad quite a Waterloo batel with the man about it, & wat was wuss for the unperlitenes of the thing, a Bewtifull yung lady cuming that way, i axualy cort the feller a Tolling the bell. But the most curus of awl the briges is 1 bilt by mister brunel wich goes Hunder the warter insted off Hover it, & in lew off entering threw a turnpike gate as usuel, yew are obleegt to go down a Wel ole, tho for my own part i Declind the later, ass the old maxum ses Let wel alone.

"From their i perceded to the blue cote skule, a wunderfull site, wear underds & underds of litel bys & gels of boath sexxs is tort evrythink free, & ass befour observd the bys is nown by their Blu cotes & the gels by their Blu stokkins. Same day went to sea Gys ospital, so cawld on acount off the yung docters makin sich Gys off them selvs: allso from there to Sent tommasses, but unfortynat coodent gane admision, not bean 1 off Sent tommases Days. Consequensialy, wishing to have a pepe at the shiping, i inquired my way to the flete, but insted off Old inglands wudden wals found nuthink but sum uncomon big Stone wals & on axing a noo polease wear i cood sea a gud large Ship or 2 was Derected to Smithfeeld.

"Anuther day i went to sea the towr, wear is anuff guns and canons to canonize old Maimit aley & all his raskly egipsions put together. Allso the mint ust to be hear, but not off late ears, tho they stil presserve the ax as cut off the hed off Hanna Bullion.

"Yestoday i vissitted the ile of Dogs and spent the hevening at the indyan Bow Wow, wich, deer wilyam, a indyan Bow Wow is the same thing ass a inglish Row de Dow. But to conclude, deer wilyam, in spite of lundun & awl its wikkidnes i shal be glad to cum down to deer natif stafordsheer agen, for ass i say, Ome's ome after awl—wen yewr munnys spent & deer wilyam, giv my Tru luv to yewr sister mary & beg her exceptence off the inclosd smawl trifl off a steal bodkin wich i wood have maid it a silver thimbull but unfortynat wayed moor then ½ a ounse, & deer wilyam, if theirs anythink i can dew for yew in lundun doant say no, i wood go threw fire and warter to serv yew, but pleas to send the munny, & rite ass sune ass yew can, not forgeting to pay the post, wich is ass follos namely for ½ a oz. 1 peece of stikkin plaster, for a hole 2 ditos or 1 Blu un, for 1½ oz. 3 ditos or a Blak & blu, and so on up to a pound, abuv wich, as a pork pi or a stilton chese or anythink of that sort, it wood be Beter to send it by the Rale rode or pikfords van. So no moor from yewr umbel sirvent

Ralph Roughdiamond."

NOVEMBER—"Sees-unable weather"

ON GOOD TERMS.

Termagants.

TERM-AGANTS.

Gather, sweet Lawyers, in Westminster-hall;
There's more game in your bag, than a sportsman e'er shoots:
You feed, and you're fed, let whatever befal;
And your flowing gowns cover your sins and your suits,
Who says that yours isn't a right royal sport,
When it's known that you all make your fortunes at Court?

5. France in a state of spontaneous combustion.

Through air as
dark as
dirty muslin,

Duke of Guys.
The city people
go
a-guzzlin.
France is a powder magazine,
A sort of foreign infernal machine—
A barrel of brimstone, of odour ambrosian,
Apparently brewed for a "triple X"-plosion!
She's been fermenting her beer for years!
She laughs in her frenzy, or revels in Thiers
For war she'll riot, at peace she'll scoff,
And she wont go on till she does go off!
She's quite in a "fifth of November" state,
To blow up some one at any rate;
If Guy Fawkes were over there—my eyes!
She'd make him a Peer—as the Duke of Guys!
She'd have her Monarch in air be blown;
Not one of the throne, but the overthrown!
And when he was shivered to atoms, she'd wait
To pick up his bits to bury in state!
She'd shoot at him till he was quite unnerved,
And then address him on being preserved.
But a King—to say it I do not stickle—
In such a preserve must be always in pickle!
I wouldn't be Louis-Philippe, I say,
If I had a thousand Louis a-day.
To be King in a land of such whimsical slaugh
'S like being a Monarch inside of a mortar!

21. Princess Royal born, 1840.

CRADLE HER (NOT HYMN).

Lords in waiting.

As you're born in a palace,
It's clear you must not
Be permitted, young baby,
To sleep in a cot:
So they've stirred up their wits,
With invention's pap-ladle,
And determined to give you
A Nautilus cradle;
Most loyally certain,
Whate'er it may do,
It will ne'er make a naughty lass,
Baby, of you!

A LONDON FOG.

Now, the sun, after a vain attempt to catch a glimpse of St. Paul's, or the Monument, gives it up in despair; while his morning herald, Lucifer, finds the fog more than a Lucifer match for him, and goes out like a damp Jones-and-Co. of a windy night. Now, the sleepy housemaid is in a fine trepidation, on discovering that her missis was right in giving her seven-o'clock ring an hour ago; she (the maid) having just counted eight in full, on the kitchen clock. Now, hook noses and cries of "clo" are more rife than ever; and, somehow or other, silver spoons and forks disappear more frequently from the "domestic hearth." Now, the poor behind-hand city clerk, who must be at his desk, in Lombard-street, by nine (it is now half-past eight by Lambeth Palace clock), determines to sacrifice fourpence on the Iron-boat Company; and, having passed an agonizing ten minutes in the cold, sloppy cabin, is at last annihilated by the steward's informing him that, in consequence of the denseness of the fog, the captain has determined not to run the boat this morning. Now, invisible cabmen drive unseen horses along viewless thoroughfares, and omnibusses go, flitting like so many Flying Dutchmen, through the mist and fog. Now, the two young gentlemen who have a coffee-and-pistol appointment at Chalk Farm, find it anything but agreeable to be set up only three yards asunder, instead of having the length of Primrose Hill between them, so as to have had a reasonable chance of missing one another. Now, a walk in the neighbourhood of Smithfield is by no means improved in its desirableness; it was bad enough before, but nothing to what it is under the "Bull's new system." Now, young Government clerks, who have to trudge "from the west," as they call it (namely—Marylebone-lane, "Chesterfield-street, Portland-place," and so forth), are highly indignant, and more than usually vituperative of the superiors of their departments, whom they commonly describe (particularly if of a political turn) as vile sinecurists, "grinding the last drop of blood from the brows of a suffering people, to pay for their own pleasures, and to minister to their own inordinate desires!" Now, nursemaids not "accustomed to the care of children" (in a fog), suddenly find their tender charges minus divers coral necklaces, ostrich feathers, gold lockets, &c. &c.; while the interesting young lady who leads dear little Fido about the parks, in a string, and reads Lord Byron the while, is horrified on finding that, for the last half hour, she has been engaged in dragging after her a mere remnant of blue ribbon. Now, omnibus cads only shake their heads in reply to your most earnest appeals and uplifted fingers, for their vehicles are all full, and can take in "no more." Now, "blacks" come down in torrents; and coal-heavers and chimney-sweepers are the only persons that can show a decent face on the occasion. Now, wood pavements are in nice condition; particularly that in the pleasing bend by St. Giles's church; where

"They slip now who never slipped before;
And they who always slipped now slip the more."

Now, housemaids do their work in no time; for it's of no use looking out for raps from chamber windows. Now, on the 5th, little boys exhibit their Guys in all parts of the town; and, on the 9th, "children of a larger growth" make Guys of themselves all the way from Guildhall to Westminster and back. Now, everybody has got a shawl, comforter, boa, or bandana, round his or her neck—except the philosophers, who appear in respirators; the result of which is, that the shawl, comforter, boa, and bandana-ites, escape scott free, while the philosophers catch most confounded bad colds and sore throats. Now, unhappy is that mamma who has a juvenile party for an excursion to the Monument; for, of course, they'll all twelve cry their twenty-four little eyes out—equally if they go and can't see anything, or are kept at home because nothing is to be seen. Now, on the river is confusion worse confounded, and smuggling is going on most prosperously in all its branches. Now, the "old traveller," just arrived by the Antwerp packet, who will carry his own portmanteau and great coat, finds, on stopping to change arms, at the nearest post, that one or other of the commodities has disappeared while he was comfortably adjusting its fellow. Now, telegraph captains and weathercocks have a nice easy time of it, and the guide to the York column is gone to see his cousins in the country. Now, men with wooden legs look very independent, as they stump over the slushy pavement; and people who have the misfortune to possess complete sets, are sadly perplexed at the crossings of the Royal Exchange, Charing Cross, and the Regent's Circus. Now, hare skins and worsted comforters are hung out prominently at the haberdashers' shops, and furs, "at this season," are, by no means, "selling at reduced prices." Now, the man "wot lights the lamps" in St. James's Park, is in a regular state of bewilderment, and not unfrequently is found running up one of the saplings instead of the lamp-post. Now, the young gentleman who has an assignation in the "grove at the end of the vale," begins to wish he hadn't been quite so urgent in the matter, and would give his ears for a decent excuse to be off the bargain. Now, honest John Sloman, the grocer, at the corner of Cannon-street, in consideration of the werry orrid state of the weather, is inveigled by his wife and daughter to visit one of the promenade concerts; to which end, having never been at a promenade concert before, honest John provides himself with a stout cane and his easy walking boots, warranted to do four miles an hour over any turnpike-road in the kingdom. Now, clubs are crammed, particularly the Oriental, where enormous fires are kept up, and the chilly old nabobs cling round one another like bats in a cellar. Now, as the plot (alias the fog) thickens, torches make their appearance; first by dozens, then by dozens of dozens, then by dozens of dozens of dozens: Charing-cross is as difficult to navigate as the North-west passage, and the parks are impossible; hackney coaches drive up against church windows; old men tumble down cellar holes: old women and children stand crying up against lamp-posts, lost within a street of their own homes; omnibus horses dash against one another, and are handed over to the knacker; a gentleman, having three ladies and a young family of children to escort home from Astley's (on foot, of course), is in a nice predicament; all the little boys in London are out, increasing, by their screams and halloos, the bewilderment of the scene (scene, did I say?); pickpockets are on the alert; ditto, burglars; policemen are not to be found; watchmen are missing; in short, the whole town is in such a state of commotion and panic, that it only requires a well-organized banditti to carry off all London into the next county.

De Porkey's Tresor.

Shortest Day.

So dark, I can't see my hand.

Bosom Friends.

A STIRRING TIME.

Puddings, as well as people, begin to go to pot; cooks, as well as drunkards, get their coppers hot. Lemons excel hypocrites in getting candid: currants, from house to house, like crooked legs, are bandied. At moist sugar, instead of white, the busy servants jump; and wisely begin to like that which they cannot lump. Mothers who beat their children, whenever the whim comes in their head, now actively betake themselves to beating eggs instead. The family assemble, but it's no longer "my lovely Rose," or my sweet William, with his pretty stock, the flour of the Christmas pudding is now the flower of the flock! Father, the only one who never would to their low obscurity demur, is now just as anxious as any to join in a general stir. Ambition, alive in his breast, awakens a mighty surprise, to think that he, who was always mincing matters, should begin to mince pies! and they prophesy, as he rakes the plums, in the bowl of China or delf, that he'll live to a Christmas-day that shall see him worth a plum himself. "How fond he is on 'em all," says nurse, meaning to be clever; "I declare he's a mixing with his family more than ever!" "Yes, nurse," responds his spouse, who thought she could do no less, "your master's acting the part of president of the family mess!" and so on—nothing whatever their placid temper a-spoiling, until the pudding's made, and tied up, and shut down, and in the copper a-boiling!

Clock after Sun.

21. St. Thomas, the shortest day.

He who is short of tin, with rent to pay,
'S a great deal shorter than the shortest day;
Rent is heart-rending, when it's over due,
Four quarters, and no quarter but to sue:
You strain your nerves for cash, with great and small,
Only to be distrained on after all;
And meet, when in the worst of mortal messes,
A fresh distress to crown your old distresses!

25. Christmas Bills:—

Alarming accounts for China.
A British Settlement.

DECEMBER—"A Swallow at Christmas" (Rara avis in terris)

CHRISTMAS COMES BUT ONCE A YEAR.

Christmas comes but once a year;
By Jove! it hadn't need come more,
Unless it wants to ruin me
Outright, and turn me out of door!
That horrid fit of gout, brought on
By neighbour Guzzle's Christmas cheer
I thought it would have kill'd me quite;
But Christmas comes but once a year.
I very seldom touch a card,
For gambling's not at all my sphere;
I wish I hadn't played last night!
But Christmas comes but once a year.
In drinking, I'm most moderate:
Oh! my poor head: oh, dear! oh, dear!
Why did I taste that nasty punch?
But Christmas comes but once a year.
I do not often play the fool,
And join in romps with younger folks;
But where's the stoic can resist
When pretty lips so sweetly coax?
"Come, nunks, one game at Blindman's-buff;
There, turn round roast beef—never fear!"
A nice lumbago I have got;
But Christmas comes but once a year.
I'm rather fond of gardening,
And curious plants delight to rear:
The best, my mistletoe, is gone;
But Christmas comes but once a year.
The tree that on my natal day
Was planted by my father dear—
The holly-tree—is stripped quite bare;
But Christmas comes but once a year.
My kinsfolks—cousins, nephews, aunts,
All come to dine on Christmas day;
It's been the custom many years
(Which Heaven forbid should fall away):
But scarcely had they all arrived,
When down the snow came, dull and drear—
So deep, not one can get away;
But Christmas comes but once a year.
Of course it's very nice indeed
To have one's kindred thus around;
And hear one's old paternal walls
With song, and dance, and mirth resound.
But, then, they've taken all the beds:
And lying on two chairs, oh! dear;
Up in a garret—where there's rats—
But Christmas comes but once a year.
The London gentlemen I met
At Drury-lane, when last in town,
Have writt'n to say, if all goes right,
By this day's train they're coming down.
I know I was a leetle sprung
That night, and by their note it's clear,
I've asked them all five to my house:
But Christmas comes but once a year.
My wife, in honour of the time,
Would have a friendly Christmas ball;
They've danced a hole right through the floor,
And ruined quite the party wall.
And daughter Ann has fall'n in love
With some poor dev'l, not worth, I hear
Enough to pay the parson's fee;
But Christmas comes but once a year.
The servants, too, must have their rout
(I love to see them gay and glad);
But then they needn't all have got
So very drunk—and very mad;
And give one warning "then and there,"
And bid me "take my beef and beer;"
And beg I'd "pay their wages up:"—
But Christmas comes but once a year.
The Christmas bills are pouring in,
My family's increasing fast;
Four girls, five boys—Ann, Kate, Jane, Sue,
Tom, Dick, Jack, Fred, and Prendergast:
And nurse has just come in to say,
Another "little stranger" dear
Is just arrived—there, that makes ten:—
But Christmas comes but once a year.

BOTHERUM ASTROLOGICUM PRO ANNO 1841.

Note now, oh! reader, the denotements of my prophet sketch: open your eyes upon the symbols which I symbolize. Behold the Cross and the Crescent in neighbourly collision; yet the Crescent is not Burton Crescent, nor the Cross, King's Cross, though these localities approximate in as close degrees: but they tell of Europe cooking the Goose of a Pacha for the Turkey of a Sultan; and, by this time, the bird is plucked and basted, and may be considered as thoroughly done. Witness, too, how the dismayed tee-totaller gazes on the wreck of the Chinese world below. But Bull is in the heart of the shop; no juggler could save the jugs; every cup is a cup too low; the plates are dished entirely, and the case of cruelty is equal in atrocity to the murder of Ware. Now is exemplified the difference between a Man-darin and a daring man. It is breaking-up time, but no holidays. Loud is the music of Handle among the crockery, but its verbal oratory is demolished by the entire annihilation of spout. It is going to pot with a vengeance, and occasions, in China, the perfect distortion of every human mug. Tea, however, is scarce for a season. They refuse to give us their green for our gunpowder: they mix their mixed with poison, and it is now "How queer!" instead of "How-qua!" They refuse the bidding of Pidding! But turn from hieroglyphic revealments to the signs and prognostics of the domestic world. Is your curiosity moved to interest in the play of Destiny? I then will act the part of Tell. Upon the palace of Victoria I behold the shining of a new sun; the hopes of royalty may now be boy-ed up, and a fair young passenger lately arrived by the first royal train will move to another station, and take a place lower, by reason of what has taken place. I see the world settling, like cards, into pax. Peace coming a-pace-is: war we shall pose with repose. The political horizon shows clear. There will be an improvement in the State; and notwithstanding the recent explosion of Dr. Church's engine, I foresee no danger to Church. On the contrary, the sun will shine on Parson's Green; and, as regards the revenue, there is every chance for a surplice; probably owing to the New Church rate at which the said engine is going.

DR. CHURCH'S ENGINE.

LATEST NEWS FROM COURT.

Nov. 21st, 1840.—Princess Royal brought in, and "ordered to be laid on the table," like a bill.

Dec. 3rd.—Bill Jones found under the table, and ordered to be sent to the Counter like a willain. ("So much for Buckingham!")

A little girl, a stranger in the palace
Came, and the nation there was nothing sad in;
Aladdin's lamp then brightened joy's full chalice,
How very different when they found a lad in!
The little boy's intrusion proved annoyant,
The little girl made all a little buoyant?

ORIGINAL NOTES.
FROM THE
BIRMINGHAM MUSICAL FESTIVAL FOR 1840.

Sept. 23.—Birmingham Musical Festival.—Ordered a cab; made for Euston-square Station; landed awkwardly; got into port; ran against a man; trod on his toe; gave my own port-man-teau to the porter. Paid my fare; had the satisfaction of hearing the clerk say, "That's the ticket!" Was told I must be sure to shew it when called upon; said, "Very well;" always did like to have something to shew for my money. Travelled briskly; steam engine a giant apparatus—a sort of Colossus of Roads; found they'd got me into a line; couldn't help it; obliged to go; been a long while going. Arrived at last; put up at the Hen and Chickens; thought, from the sign of the house, charges might be fowl; agreeably surprised to find them fair.

Monday.—Attended rehearsal. Splendid hall; grand interior; glorious outside; ruined the builders. Brought the stone from the Isle of Anglesea; sent the architects to the Isle of Dogs. Good rehearsal; noble orchestra; organ finely developed. Knynett acted non-conductor; stamped as if he was paying stamp duty; very droll; took the flats in, put the orchestra out. Glorious array of singers: Miss Birch stuck to her perch; Miss Hawes obeyed the laws; Dorus Gras—made no faux pas; Braham's throat gave tenor note; Phillips shone in barritone; big Lablache gave bass sans tache; Cramer led with cap on head; Loder and Cooke played by book; Dragonetti and Linley worked very well-o, on deep contra basso and violoncello; bassoon of Beauman bothered no man; horn of Platt came in pat; Harper's trumpet obligato, capitally took its part-o; Cook played show-boy with his hautboy; and, to end without a blunder, Chipp's drum had, its leather under, half a ton of smothered thunder. Heard 'em play; remembered the railroad, and couldn't help thinking that I'd got off the line into the chords.

Tuesday.—Festival began. Shop full; a crammer for Cramer. You've heard of the Chiltern Hundreds, they're nothing to the Birmingham thousands. The seats were all uniform, but no uniform for the staff officers, only ribbons in their button-holes; beaux with bows. Singers came on, and performance went off admirably.

Wednesday.—Town crowded; weather wet, but the people pouring in faster than the rain; music hall made fine shelter; full again; Mendelsohn's hymn of praise produced lots of praise of him; people delighted; performance stupendous; singers tired; Phillips almost knocked up; went out to refresh himself; strolled too far, and was quite knocked down; robbed of his purse by three brutal button-makers; he treated them to some sovereigns; they treated him to an extra allowance of punch; he was bruised considerably, but his watch and his barritone escaped without injury; heard a tallow chandler say, that Phillips and Mendelsohn were the heroes of the day, but that Mendelsohn had the glory of the composition, and Phillips of the whacks!

Thursday.—Influx of nobility—nobs and bobs—Sir Robert Peel among the latter.

Friday.—Festival over; grand fancy ball at night:

Drinking, dancing, all revel, no rest; proggery, toggery, all of the best; whisking, frisking, whirling about, till daylight comes, driving the candle-light out: then tired, not fired, their pillows they clinch, and the festival's come to its very last pinch.

MANNERS MAKE THE MAN.

Know ye the wight one frequent meets,
With brazen lungs around the streets
Soliciting a job?
His head in shovel-hat encased,
His legs in cotton hose embraced,
And nick-named "Dusty Bob?"
You hold in small account, no doubt,
One who "dust, oh!" doth bawl about,
Yet low as his estate,
Some philosophic thoughts belong
To him whose time is passed among
The ashes of the grate.
Still, these are matters all apart
From thy design, my muse, who art
Just now intent to tell
An episode of humble life,
That was with courtly manners rife,
And thus the chance befell.
"The rosy morn, with blushes spread,
Now rose from out Tithonus' bed,"
Which means, the world had set
(For these are unromantic days)
About its work, and gone its ways,
Forthwith to toil and sweat.
Among the many that arise,
To pay their morning sacrifice,
That is, to Juggernaut,
Themselves beneath Aurora's car,
With Pagan zeal your dustman are
Beyond all others fraught.
In sooth, to speak, we would not choose
To state these fellows ever snooze,
For bitter as the bore is,
Nor night, nor morn, in square or street,
Can one go forth, but he must meet,
These grim "memento moris."
But to my tale: at break of day,
Up rose the hero of my lay,
With hope his spirits buoy'd;
And ever as he fill'd his cart,
He felt a space beneath his heart
Establishing a void.
Loud and more loud the murmurs rise,
Like an Æolian harp, whose sighs
At first breathe gently; but
Wild music from its bosom springs,
When the wind howls among the strings,
And agitates the gut.
Though Bob knew nought of Æolus,
He learnt, from this internal fuss,
'Twas time for breakfast now:
Or, as he said, "for bit and sup,
His innards was a kicking up
Sich a unkimmon row."
'Twas thus intent on déjeûner,
Our hungry dustman took his way,
In search of fitting food:
Nor long his quest, until he came,
Where a spruce, gay, and buxom dame,
Behind a counter stood.
And, as with horny fist he smoothed his hair,
He thus bespoke that lady debonaire:
"Cut us a slap-up slice of Cheshire cheese,
And tip's a twopenny burster, if you please."
Here, 'tis befitting to relate the guise,
In which Bob met the gentle lady's eyes.
A poll with matted carrots thatched,
A face with mud and smut bepatched,
A neck and chest scarce half begirt
With a lugubrious, yellow shirt,
A slip of waistcoat here and there,
Breeches, a demi-semi pair,
And not a vestige of a coat—
Such was our earthy sans culotte.
When such an apparition met her view,
What was most natural the dame should do?
Straightway address her dainty self,
To seek the treasures of her shelf?
Or clap some musty, antiquated crust,
Between the fingers of the man of dust?
The latter, doubtless, and it so fell out;
Turning, with ill-dissembled scorn, about,
The lady-baker hardly deigned to drop
Into his palm the patriarch of the shop;
A venerable roll, a fixture there—
A household nest-egg of the boulangère.
Here, a domestic mouse had, long ago
(Soon after it was dough),
Wreathed him, as Thomas Moore would say, "his bower"
Among the flower:
And happened, accidentally, to be
Chez lui,
When madame put the piece of antique bread
Into our dustman's hand, as hath been said.
Now, let me ask, had Chesterfield been placed,
What time his chyle with exercise was braced.
To make his meal from off a living mess,
D'ye think my Lord had kept his politesse?
Or acted, as did Bob, the man of dirt,
Who, on the instant that he did insert
His thumb and finger in that roll so stale,
Pull'd out the squeaking vermin by the tail;
And seeing that the bak'ress looked aghast
Upon the means she gave to break his fast—
Blandly observed, "There's some mistake in this,
I didn't ax you for a sandwich, Miss!"

BRANDY AND SALT.

The wonderful cures effected by these ingredients have made such a noise in the world, that we cannot resist the temptation to publish a few facts and testimonies which have fallen under our immediate knowledge.

The first case was that of a poor man, who had been for years a martyr to the gout, and being desirous of trying the effects of the miraculous compound, but unable to purchase the ingredients, he tried another plan, and perfectly succeeded in removing every symptom of inflammation, by merely sitting a quarter of an hour with one foot in a brandy-keg, and the other in a salt-box.

THE FOLLOWING IS FROM A CORRESPONDENT.

"Dear Sir,—May I beg your insertion of the following?—I was terribly afflicted with cancer, heartburn, chilblains, thickness of breathing, warts, headach, numbness of the joints, deafness, sore throat, lumbago, toothach, loss of appetite, falling off of the hair, corns, &c. &c., when I was recommended to try the newly-discovered panacea; and, I am happy to say, after two bottles of the stuff, I am perfectly recovered. You are at liberty to make what use you think proper of this letter.