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

Glasses, tables, pictures, chairs, Dutch ovens, and beds;—and knots of men upon the stairs, with knots upon their heads;—and the dining-room table put in the front drawing-room, and covered by the back parlour carpet,—supporting the auctioneer, and the clerk, and catalogues, and desk, altogether enough to warp it.—And each hale porter stout is "drawing lots" about, which, if brittle, you may think fortunate, if from the room they are thrust whole,—from the specimen post of the best front bed, and the book muslin covers, that once were red, to the cinder-sieve and knife-board, in the dust-hole.—"Any advance upon seven—eight, nine, ten, eleven—going!—thank you, sir—twelve, thirteen. Tap! gone for thirteen—the cheapest bargain ever seen; they are yours, sir; if you pay, they may go at once away. Six iron hoops, a water-butt, a bottle-rack, and broom."—"Oh, Mr. Auctioneer, there's some mistake, I fear, for not a word I said."—"But, sir, you nodded your head."—"Oh, yes, to a friend in the room!"—And when the sale of the silver things is going to begin, the room's so hot, and the crowd so dense, from the people scrowdging in;—and the struggle for the loss is so great 'mongst those who compete, that you'd say there was a race for the plate in a general heat.—And there's a great Jew upholder, that I'm forced to uphold on my shoulder—leaning upon my chair, with long, black, greasy hair, that would make Sir Peter Laurie swear, and a coat as rough as a bear; it's rather too bad to let him in amongst respectable people, in his bear-skin; and I don't know what he can mean, but I suppose it's his fat that makes him lean.—"Ladies and gentlemen, I must beg silence,—for the babel of your tongues may be heard a mile hence.—I first offer to your notice an article of vertu, as old as the world itself, both curious and rare too, that was dug up beneath some ruins in the Sicilies,—and is from the undoubted chisel of Praxiteles—representing a Venus, without legs, arms, or head; au reste,—the trunk is very beautiful, so is the chest."—"Mr. Auctioneer, your classic knowledge is rather queer; and I don't wish to hurt you, but I cannot understand Venus being an article of virtue; and if this mutilated image is Venus coming from the sea, as you say, I should rather incline to think that the sharks had been following in her lee all the way."—"We have here a fine painting by Vandyke,—a correct portrait of anybody you like—and a bust of the celebrated ballad-singer, Homer,—who, throughout the towns of Greece, was a roamer,—where 'tis known, by even the most illiterate dunce, that he'd the luck to be born in seven different cities at once;—but all his endeavours to raise a penny from each of these places seemed to fail,—for he never got out-door relief from any, although it seems to have been a Union on a most extensive scale.—I'll thank you to give me a good bidding, if you please—for you rarely see such authentic originals as these—which I have offered to the gaze of the beholders.—The bust upon which you have all bent your eyes was buried in Pompeian lava for centuries,—where it, all that time, had lain."—"Then, perhaps, sir, you can explain the meaning of the motto 'Austin and Seeley,' on the shoulders."—And in the midst of this general din the rafters of the floor all tumble in,—and down to the parlour the company and auctioneer go,—which rather cumflusticates those who are sitting below; and so,—amidst the general confusion and rout,—we ourselves will contrive to scramble out—from the room in which we were crammed;—and, on gaining the fresh air, we are almost tempted to swear, if we go there again we'll be—shot!

A SMITH'S VICE.

15. The Ladies at the Palace, hearing that at the expected birth Royal salutes were to be given, petitioned the Prince that they might not be overlooked in the arrangement.

24. A tidey overflow of the Thames.

30. Affair of the Caroline—M'Leod's acquittal.

No third-floor front that ever looked upon the golden waters of Ball's Pond harboured swain more favoured by nature and art than the young Augustus Kutitphat. His father was the renowned Orlando Kosenem Von Kutitphat who, passing over from Germany to this country in three ships, became arbiter elegantiarum at Hockley-in-the-Hole, and his mother was nearly related to that unprecedented Simpson who conferred immortality upon the bowers of Vauxhall. At the age of nineteen Augustus was bereaved of his parents, from whom he inherited a mine of brass (in his face), and a harvest of curls (hair-looms) unparalleled in the annals of (Bear's) Greece. He was not, as he himself asserted, critically handsome, but eminently genteel. "Manners make the man," he was accustomed to observe, "but the tailor, the gentleman: appearance is the premium where-with you can discount society; it's gammon to talk about the aristocracy of birth; why there's a second fiddle at Astley's that no Duke in the 'Red Book' is fit to hold a candle to: I never had a grandfather, and is there any mistake about me?"

In this way of thinking, and a primrose satin waistcoat, Augustus proceeded to essay the truth of his philosophy. A great poet has said, "All the world's a stage;" had he added, "licensed only for the performance of pantomime," the fancy would have well assorted with the fact. To succeed in the drama of life the performer needs only activity—to keep his eyes open, and his heart and his mouth shut. The two former of these elements of success Kutitphat possessed; had the three been combined, he might have become Lord Mayor. Though a denizen of Islington, inhabiting a chamber which, had the house been another remove from town (at the Antipodes), would have been the cellar—by grace of patent-leather Wellingtons and a Polish tailor, he himself achieved a polish that not one in a thousand would have known from the true metal. Even the ingenious youth who, with a red coatee and nose to correspond, enacts the esquire at Crockford's, looking after the coursers of the knights-errant who there do congregate—even he, albeit as good an authority in such matters as the Lord Chamberlain himself, was almost led into the indiscretion of a bow. Augustus had just turned into St. James's Street, when our Cad-Crockfordian caught sight of him. His right hand had all but reached the bit of felt that did duty for the rim of his hat; but it fell ere the error was irretrievable. "No," he soliloquized; "it ain't not qvite the ticket, but unkimmin good at the price: blest if I warn't nearly had—wont he step into some on 'em. At first, wouldn't I have pounded it he was a real swell; but, now I twig him nearer, his mother don't know as he's a taking of the air."

Angelina Ampletin was one of the prettiest girls in Pimlico, and, if there was any truth in rumour, very far from one of the worst catches. Papa had retired from business at Billingsgate, with money enough to found a dozen joint-stock banks, and leave a handsome surplus. In fact, his turbot and salmon were all gold and silver fish! Now, as Augustus entered the enclosure of the Park, Angelina and one of her friends were studying ornithology on the margin of the stream that meanders between the Horse Guards and Buckingham Palace. A glance of soul-speaking sympathy passed between the youth and maiden—and, behold! the tiny hand of her Breguet had not accomplished another revolution ere they were in confidential communication. Let us not dwell on the progress of their loves; day by day did they perambulate the sylvan shades of Kensington Gardens (so called because destitute of both flower and fruit); and at length the critical avowal was made—Angelina blushed her passion—"she lived only for her Augustus; would he, indeed, fondly love on to the close?" History is divided concerning the exact nature of his reply. According to one account he is said to have declared that, if false, nothing should prevent his being "jiggered;" while another asserts that, in evidence of immutability, he called upon the zephyrs that sighed around them, then and there to "blow him tight." Alas! for Augustus, that which the figure of his form had built up, the figure of his rhetoric laid desolate. Angelina was the soul of refinement and education, having been finished at Turnham Green. With a look of horror she fled the presence of Kutitphat—that blow was the unkindest cut of all!

It was November, but still the weather was delicious. All the gay things of nature were abroad; and even the wretched sought to borrow a ray of the rich sunshine. Over the still verdant carpet of Hyde Park were gliding graceful groups of fair women; while, among them, moved a form that seemed to have little business there at such a time. Bless ye! dear muffs and boas, no heresy is here intended, for instinct would curl the nose of an angel in Eden who should chance upon a fellow in the débris of an ancient Taglioni, and no shirt. Was it a wonder, then, that Angelina gave a wide berth to Augustus when she encountered him in such a category? Where were now his airs and graces? All—all gone! The station, like "the herald Mercury," exchanged for a posture between a faint and a sneak; the glance of scorn, for the mien of supplication; the sheen of promise, for the sear of despair! People speak of Brummel frying his own tripe as if it were something to wonder at. Let them take a turn in St. James's Park, any day between the first of January and the last of December, and, unless they shut their eyes, they will discover more than one member of the Kutitphat family at a discount.

2. Michaelmas Term begins.

Chamber Practice.

A Brief.

Deeds carefully abstracted.

9. The Lord Mayor takes water at Westminster Hall, and wine at Guildhall.

Royal Babby born

THE NURSE'S SOLILOQUY.

Pray, Mrs. Lilly, when is His Royal Highness to be dressed en grande tenue? Don't know, my lady; at present he is dressed in the nursery.

DECEMBER—NOTES OF THE MONTH.

1. Bernard Cavanagh detected.

9. Prize Cattle Show—Blank faces.

21. Ladies scold least.

25. Dine out (if you can).

CHRISTMAS FARE.

THE STATISTICAL SOCIETY.

[Our country readers may probably not be aware that there exists in London a body of pleasant-minded gentlemen, constituting a society bearing the above name, who collect, with never-wearying application and research, the various statistical reports connected with every subject of the day. Their proceedings are duly chronicled in the different scientific and literary reviews, but as these may not be within the reach of all, we have collected the most interesting points discovered by their labours, during the past twelvemonth, and present them as a "Year Book of Facts" to our admirers.]

Some valuable particulars have been gained in connection with the supper taverns of London. Of every twenty visitors, it appears that eight order Welsh rabbits, six ditto broiled kidneys, four ditto poached eggs, and two ditto chops or steaks, as their taste may direct; and that these numbers are divided into seven medical students, five lawyers' clerks, three gentlemen from the country, the same number of men about town, and two shop-boys or single tradesmen, who imagine they are so. Of these, more than one-third call the waiters "Charles," or "Tom;" two in five join loudly in the burdens of "The Pope," and "The Monks of Old;" and one in four encores the comic songs by striking his fists upon the table, until the cruets commence performing an intricate figure of their own, and finally tumble down upon the floor.

The statistics of Camberwell Fair are exceedingly interesting; and the following return of the state of fifty dolls there purchased, at the end of a week from the time of buying, will be read, we are assured, with avidity:

As the affection of a child for its doll proverbially increases according to the dilapidated state of the latter, the above tables afford an interesting view of the probable existing proportion of nursery attachments at the present moment. One child in three, at the Fair, had a mouth covered with gingerbread crumbs, and five in twelve had the stomach-ache. The promenade Concert d'Eté, which lasted all day long, embraced twenty-two penny trumpets, or cornets-à-bois, nineteen musical fruits, six fiddles with packthread strings, and four drums, varying in price from sixpence to two shillings. A solo, by a very young performer, on a tin rattle filled with peas, was very much admired.

A paper, involving some singular points of manufacturing economy, has been written, entitled, "What becomes of all the pins?" It appears, from Professor Partington, that twenty millions of pins are daily manufactured in this country. These get into general circulation, and after a time, entirely disappear; but the remarkable fact is, that, like the swallows, nobody knows where they go to. It is proved that, were it possible to recall these lost articles, a quantity might be collected sufficient to build the projected foot-bridge at Hungerford Market, and the residue might be cast into one enormous pin, which should be erected as a column in any part of London best suited for its elevation, and to be called "Victoria's Pin," in opposition to "Cleopatra's Needle," at Alexandria. There would be a winding staircase in the interior, with a saloon in its head, and it might serve, not only as a land-mark in stormy weather for the fourpenny steamboats plying between Vauxhall and London Bridge, but, since the setting up of statues to everybody that dies is getting into fashion, the column could be crowned with an image of Shakspeare, Byron, or any other inferior character who has not yet been so honoured, in London, beyond the lobbies of the theatres and Madame Tussaud's.

From the visiting report "On the Lunatic Asylums of the United Kingdom," we learn that the persons of unsound or slightly cracked intellects in England, amount to ninety per cent., but that straight-waistcoats have gone out of fashion, being superseded by straight pea-jackets with the majority of the aberrated. Of a great quantity of lunatics now in Bedlam, five out of thirteen are addicted to punching the crowns out of their hats, and then putting them on topsy-turvy; and two in seventeen are not quite clear whether they are the Secretary of State or Julius Cæsar, but collect small pebbles, which they call petrified bears' heads and five-shilling pieces. Ninety-one and a half per cent. believe they are perfectly sane, and that all the rest are stark mad; whilst two in nine are preparing to bring an action against the Queen for breach of promise of marriage. Of three hundred wooden bowls allowed them for their gruel, twenty-four had been thrown at the nurses and keepers in one day; and, in a single instance, one had been converted into a species of cap, which was put on with much solemnity, and the wearer then kept close watch in the yard for the whole week over a strawberry-pottle, which he represented to be Windsor Castle. At Hanwell, from the proximity of the asylum to the railway, twenty per cent. believe that they are first-class carriages, and have a habit of whistling loudly when they approach, that the others may get out of the way; a proceeding which is generally advisable.

A statement has also been made connected with the omnibuses of the metropolis, from which it appears that, when you are waiting at the corner of any street for an omnibus, seven out of eight are going the wrong way. Ninety per cent. of the cads ask if you will ride outside when you hail them; and, out of thirteen passengers, three wear kid gloves, eight sport brown Berlin, and two none at all.

REPORT OF THE CATNACH SOCIETY.

RULES.

I.—The Society shall be called the Catnach Society.

II.—The chief object of the Society shall be to reprint rare and unedited ballads and handbills, printed, at various times, by Messrs. Catnach, Birt, and Pitt, of Great St. Andrew Street, Seven Dials.

III.—The Society shall consist of as many subscribers as can be got together, and, as a precaution against bolting, the subscriptions shall be paid in advance.

IV.—A subscription of a guinea a year shall entitle the members to receive a copy of all the works issued by the Society.

BOOKS ALREADY PRINTED.

1.—The Greenacre Garland; or, a Merrie Manual for Midnight Murderers: A collection of the most remarkable dying-speech bills issued within the last forty years; comprising letters written, and hymns composed by the malefactors the night before their executions, speeches on the scaffold, copies of verses detailing the crime, and written for music, with views of the execution, and occasional portraits of the felons. Edited by the late Thomas Cheshire, Esq., of Newgate, Middlesex.

2.—A Collection of Political Songs and Ballads, having reference to some local particulars connected with a county election in 1833. As the allusions in these relics are but imperfectly understood, and the interest has quite gone by, this forms a valuable addition to the works already published.

3.—The Street Anthology of the Nineteenth Century; comprising notices of the most popular itinerant musicians of the day: to which is added, an inquiry into the probable author of "Jim along Josey;" with memoirs of the following eminent perambulators—viz., the little man in the soldier's coat, with the "jolly nose," who indulges in Billy Barlow and Follow the Drum, under a very diminutive and dilapidated umbrella, on certain evenings in Leicester Square; the professional gentleman in the oil-skin cap, and whiskers inclining to auburn, who sings to the dulcimer and attends the races; the ambiguous character who ties his hair in bows, wears sandals, carries a fan, and sings "She promised to buy me a bunch of blue ribbons," and dances to the chorus—"Tilly ung de rung tung de rung day," as he plays an imaginary piano on his ribs; the two young gentlemen who black their faces with soot and tallow, and sing "Sich a getting up stairs," standing upon their heads, and dancing with their feet in the air; the conjuror who wears a scarlet coat, does the doll trick, and tries to imitate "Jerry," but who does not succeed therein.

4.—Merrie England in the Modern Time; or, Richardson and his Friends. A singular collection of showbills and street advertisements, edited by the late Mr. Richardson, of travelling-theatre celebrity; including details of the various fairs he attended, and embracing endless anecdotes of his contemporaries—the learned pig, black wild Indian, white Negress, Scotch giant, fat boy, Welsh dwarf, young Saunders, Mr. Samivell, the equestrian, &c.; interspersed with many outlandish songs and recitations, and dialogues between masters of shows and Mr. Merriman.

5.—Three Yards for a Penny. A répertoire of some reprinted popular lyrical poems prevalent at the commencement of the reign of Queen Victoria; including "Happy Land," "Claude du Val," "Woodman, spare that Tree," "Nix my Dolly," "Wanted a Something," &c. &c.

To the Editor of the Comic Almanack.

I am incurably in love with a young lady, residing in the country, but have reason to think, from what passed between us at our last interview, that she has some misgivings respecting my fidelity. I therefore beg you will insert these lines in your Almanack, which, as it circulates everywhere, will show everybody that my intentions are strictly honourable.

Is it likely—that the young Prince can lead any other than the life of a soldier, since he is already in arms?

Is it likely—that you can ride in an omnibus, without catching one pane, through the absence of another?

Is it likely—that you can ever get the work you particularly want at a Subscription Library?

Is it likely—that you can be riding within half a mile of the theatres, in the evening, without having twenty playbills thrust in at your coach-windows?

Is it likely—when attending a meeting of creditors, where time is asked for, that you will ever hear of less than the probability of thirty shillings in the pound?

Is it likely—that anybody on the Free List ("the public press excepted") can gain admittance at a theatre when there is anything worth seeing or hearing?

Is it likely—that any account of a fire can be inserted in the newspapers, unaccompanied by "further particulars?"

Is it likely—that an unfavourable review of a work can appear, without the author's declaring that the writer has been actuated by private malice?

Is it likely—that you will find the National Gallery, or British Museum, open at the day or hour a country cousin has selected for visiting it?

Is it likely—that you can receive a present of game from the country without paying, in carriage, more than it is worth, and being expected to send a basket of fish in return?

Is it likely—that your servant will find a coach or cab, on the nearest stand, when you are in a hurry?

Is it likely—that a friend will remember to return your umbrella until the dry weather sets in?

Is it likely—when you get into an omnibus at the Bank, that you will arrive at Bond-street in the time in which you could have pedestrianised the distance twice over?

Is it likely—that the "positively last night" of a dramatic Star will be the end of his performances?

Is it likely—that a publisher will omit to announce a work as "just ready," when it is not even written by the author?

Is it likely—that you will hear the popular preacher whose fame has attracted you five miles on a foggy November Sunday morning?

Is it likely—that you can remember the number of the coach in which you have left your new silk umbrella?

Is it likely—that the street musicians will pass on under double the usual time, if you happen to be in a particularly ill-humour, or are engaged in the miseries of authorship?

Is it likely—that a day can pass without the manager of a theatre receiving ten applications, from "particular friends," for the use of the stage-box?

Is it likely—that you can listen to a traveller, without hearing "when I was abroad," twenty or thirty times repeated?

Is it likely—for a snuff-taker to offer his box, without observing, "that it is a bad habit, but he cannot do without it?"

Is it likely—for your country friends not to have seen more of the London lions than you, who have been in town all your life?

Is it likely—that a friend will refuse to lend you a hundred pounds, without giving you plenty of advice?

Is it likely—that you can take a trip to a watering-place, without ever-last-ingly running against your shoemaker, and finding your butcher there, "cutting it fat?"

Is it likely—that you can put on a new pair of boots, without wishing the maker of them at—a pretty considerable distance; and driving a hole in the floor with your stamp of—anything but approbation?

Is it likely—that a young lady can be induced to sit down to the piano-forté, until after she has raised fifty objections?