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

For the Falling Sicknesse.—Take the jaw bone of a man or a woman, and beat it into fine powder, and if a woman have the falling sicknesse, then use the jaw bone of the man; and if it be a man, then use the jaw bone of the woman; so much of the powder as will cover a sixpence, put it into wine or any other liquid thing which you shall like of, and drink it; you may use it as often as you will, but especially at spring and fall.

For the Stone.—Take the blood of a Fox, and make it into powder, and drink it in wine, and without doubt it shall destroy the stone; and if you will not believe, take a stone and put it into the blood of a fox, and it will break.

For the Falling Evil.—Take the skull of a dead man, whereon moss groweth, being taken and washed very clean, and dryed in an oven, and then beaten to powder; the skull must be of one that hath been slaine, or died suddenly, or of one that was hanged.

To take a Corn out of the Toe.—Take a black snail, roast it in a white cloth, and when it is roasted, lay it hot to the corn, and it will take it away.

Before death this is a sign, if the tears run down of a man's right eye, and a woman's left eye.

ADVERTISEMENT EXTRAORDINARY.

THE WORSHIPFUL COMPANY OF WISEACRES, having for nearly two centuries, by the aid of Francis Moore, Richard Partridge, Poor Robin, and Co., done great service to the community, particularly to the agricultural portion thereof (by their seasonable directions for getting in the harvest, &c.), and occasioned great delight and satisfaction to all the old women of the empire; and having, moreover, employed the most diligent endeavours to cause good sense and universal intelligence to remain, as the said Company's craft and mystery do clearly indicate they should remain—Stationary:—for all these reasons, the said Worshipful Company do take great credit to themselves for the improvements in their business and calling, which other folks have originated; and confidently expect the public will, as in times past, always deal at their shop, and give them full credit for all the wonderful wonders which they promise henceforth to perform.

As I sat at my window a few evenings ago, a loud rattling in the street drew my attention, and at the same instant an omnibus stopped at my nextdoor neighbour's, the poulterer. First alighted a servant-maid and lad—then two or three half-grown boys and girls, intermingled with a torrent of chattels, consisting of shrubs, flowers, enough live animals to stock a menagerie, packages past counting, and lastly, Mrs. Giblet in full feather, arrayed in lily-white, and bearing in each hand a full-blown balsam. All was safely landed, when a hackney coach drove up at a quiet pace, and from it descended, with the help of his shopmen and a pair of crutches, my neighbour, Simon Giblet himself. His legs were swathed up, his back, for which broadcloth was formerly too narrow, seemed considerably shrunk, and he looked care-worn and in pain. After him was borne his second son Dick, apparently disabled too. I had scarcely seen my neighbour or any of his family for some months past, but as I had often gossipped in his shop, I determined to go down and inquire what had befallen him. He had just arrived at his great wooden chair. His eyes were gleaming with complacency on a goodly row of fatted fowls, all placed with their delicate, dainty, floury broad behinds before, and as he plumped into the seat he ejaculated, with a grunt, "Thank heaven!" A shopman sat in a corner plucking a snow-white pullet. Giblet looked at him wistfully, and then, "Bring it here, Sam," he cried. He took it, plucked a few handfuls of feathers, and as he returned it to Sam, "Thank heaven!" he grunted again. My foot kicked against something at the threshold. I stooped and picked up a clasped book, which I presented to him, as I tendered my sympathy. "Oh!" said he, "nothing but disasters. I've made ducks and drakes of my money, and a goose of myself; upon my sole, it's a blessing that I got away before Michaelmas. I'm in too much pain to tell you now. Ah! I see you've picked up my journal. Work or pleasure, I've always made up a day-book every night. I'll lend it you if you wish to see how I've been pigeoned. While I stuck to the fowls all went fair with me, but when I took to that river-bank I was like a duck out of water." I saw my neighbour was excited, so, after a few consoling words, I retreated, carrying off his calendar; and here are some extracts, by permission, for the benefit of all amateur ruralists.

March 21, 1834.—Mrs. G. bent on a rural retirement, and declaring this a dog-cheap bargain,—meet Mr. Grabbit to-morrow, pay premium, and take lease of his snug place at Strand-on-the-Green.—Wife insists on calling it Cherub Lodge, Paradise Bank.—N.B. Original sum, £600; Grabbit seeming to like us, abates a hundred entirely as a favour.

27th.—All safe arrived: only one pier-glass split into four, and best tea-set, bought as 32 pieces, converted into 32 dozen. However, Mrs. G. observes, that being by the river side, we must have a marine grotto, and the pieces of looking-glass, mixed with the bits of blue and gold china, will make a fine glitter among the moss and shells.

28th.—Grabbit recommends Isaac Snail as head gardener, and his son Isaac to help him—says old Isaac was his right hand, and begged to be left in the house, he was so attached to the garden.

31st.—Two days' rain, without ceasing; planning with Isaac on the large kitchen table covered an inch thick with mould—laid down gravel walks of red garter, and stuck up skewers for fruit trees.

April 1.—Rain falling, river rising, cellars filling.

2nd.—Ducks swimming into the parlour—moved to the first floor for safety—Musical Tom (my youngest) splashing about bare-legged in the kitchen, and shouting "four feet water in the hold." A leak sprung in the next onion field—all my land under water. Dick, perched on window-sill, angling for roach in the garden. Isaac says we shall get used to it, and the waters always go off again. Daughter Julia tells me the people of Egypt would think it quite a blessing—beg to differ.

7th.—Can just see land.—House left rather slimy.—Isaac and I commence gardening in earnest.—Distrained on for forty odd pounds, taxes left unpaid by Mr. Grabbit.—To keep my goods, parted with the money, and started to town for an explanation—found Grabbit sailed last week for Swan River. Isaac says he was a worthy gentleman, but had a bad memory—begin to be of the same opinion.

9th.—Buried an old hen at the foot of a plum-tree by the light of the full moon—am told it will then bear egg-plums.

19th.—Potato eyes always an eye-sore, so have planted a bed with every eye nicely cut away, by which I hope to grow a crop as smooth as my hand and as blind as moles.—Look for the Horticultural Society's gold medal for this bright idea.

27th.—Wondered my ranunculuses did not come up; just tried one, found I had planted them all bottom topmost, and they were shooting away down to what Dick says is the centre of gravity.

May 3.—Grubbing for grubs among the rose-trees—cucumbers in full flower—Mrs. Giblet and Julia come to help me—all busy setting the blossoms—puzzled to tell the male flowers, till Mrs. G. discovered it all by the book.

12th.—Tulips splendid yesterday, but flagged this morning; and after dinner all napping with their heads on the bed—Isaac said it was the east wind. Thought there might be a grub at the roots, so drew one up—found no bulb—all the rest the same—somebody had taken away the roots and stuck the flowers into the ground again.

13th.—Finished my new hot-water pipes for the conservatory, all heated by the kitchen fire—a scheme of my own—Cook had a regular flare-up with so much company yesterday, so the water was boiling hot all day—by night the plants looked like scalded goose-berries. This morning, all my pipes united in a joint-run on the cistern, which answered their draughts to the last, and the spare water from the green-house floor was soaking into the breakfast parlour. The inventor just arrived—says it's all quite regular—the cracked joints will close of themselves in time—I wonder when.

23rd.—Wrote to the editor of The Gardener's Journal an account of my plan for growing potatoes without eyes, and the experiments for making an egg-plum tree.

June 2.—Vines cut last month, all bled to death.—Surprised that my new potatoes without eyes have not seen daylight yet.—My letter to the magazine in print.—Encouraging notice by editor, "Thanks S. G. for communicating his ingenious discoveries; hopes to hear from him again, with samples of the new potato and egg-plum." Think I shall disclose myself, and name the new sort, the Cherub Giblet potato. Most of the neighbours spoke to me coming out of church yesterday, but little thought who S. G. was.

12th.—Suppose I want exercise.—Wife blows me up, and says I get puffy; so, to keep all smooth with her and the garden walks, drag the great roller about for two hours, morning and night.

19th.—Insects in green-house devouring all my new plants; searched book for a remedy, and last night popped in a pan of burning brimstone. This morning all the grubs shrivelled to shreds, and every plant dead and stripped as naked as a plucked chicken. Tom begs to have the green-house to keep his pigeons in.

23rd.—Fill up odd time in watching fruit trees with a rattle, for the birds perch on the sham cats and build nests in the mawkins. What with opening and shutting the cucumber-frames, according to the sun, wind, and clouds, plenty to do.—Charged the garden-engine with lime water—set Dick and Tom to play upon the caterpillars. They have so whitewashed the three Miss Blackets, that I have two velvet bonnets, a silk pelisse, and a cashmere shawl to pay for.

July 3.—Tool-house robbed last night; all cleared out but the garden roller. Isaac's list for a new outfit—spades, forks, dibbers, trowels, traces, hoes, rakes, weeders, scrapers, knives, pruners, axes, saws, shears, scythes, hammers, pincers, lines, levels, sieves, watering-pots, syringes,—he would have gone on, but I stopped him.

9th.—Set nooses for wild rabbits, which are devouring everything green, even the bays. This morning found we had strangled Dick's lop-eared doe. Tom, who is learning to joke, observed that she had wandered for a change of food, and had found a halter-ation.

18th.—The Cherub Giblet potatoes not coming up to time, tried the ground and found them rotting—all gone off without a single shoot.—Mem. To forget them in my next to The Gardener's Journal.

24th.—Half my time taken up in driving the butterflies off the gooseberry trees. Left my weeding-gloves stuck on a stick last night—put them on this morning, and smashed five slugs in one, and seven earwigs in the other.—Mem. Old gloves the best slug-trap.

August 5.—My cucumber frames yield plenty of fruit—have gathered not less than twenty, worth twopence each—cost me only five pounds six shillings and sevenpence.

9th.—Strolled into shrubbery this evening with a lanthorn, for the pleasure of viewing things in a new light—up started two figures from among the bushes, tumbled me, lanthorn, and all, into a bed of roses, and escaped. Mem. 'Stablish a spring gun to-morrow.

15th.—Wall-fruit ripening—must have a few friends while there is something for them—fresh-gathered peaches always a treat.

19th.—Up at six to look after the fruit—all hope of a dessert had deserted my walls—every ripe plum, peach and nectarine, clean gone, as though the rogues knew that I had asked ten to dinner. Said nothing, but sent off Isaac to Covent Garden. Obliged to do it liberally, having unfortunately been boasting. Looked in book for best man-trap—found it called the humane, because it only breaks the leg. Mem. Set up a man-trap to-morrow.

25th.—My egg-plums ripe at last—sent off a loaded branch to my correspondent the editor—Letter of thanks in return, saying that my tree would have produced egg-plums whether I had buried the old hen or not.—Envious, no doubt.

September 2.—Terrible outcry in the garden, this morning, before I was up—ran down in my shirt—unlucky Dick had stolen a march on the egg-plum tree for a private regale. Branch broke—there he was on his back, kicking—hives upset—could not see Dick for bees—got help and rescued him at last—all stung a little—Dick poulticed from head to foot, and laid up for a month at least. Isaac says it is a thousand pities, as the honey was almost ready for taking.

18th.—Went to the Bank to-day—lot of garden tools at old iron-shop in the City Road—very cheap and ready marked S. G., so bought and despatched them home—looked up, and saw "Jacob Snail" over door—thought it rather suspicious.

19th.—Could not sleep for thinking of Isaac and the tools—bright moonlight at two—looked through the window—something moving on the garden wall—saw two men among the bees—seized my musket—called Harry to follow me—crept down through the shrubs, and there was old Isaac, plain enough, tying the hives in sacks and handing them to young Isaac on the wall—made sure of the old fox, so fired at the young one; down he fell into the ditch outside. Sprung forward, forgetting the spring gun, caught the wire and all the shot in my legs—never made such a jump in my life—took me plump, head and shoulders, into the man-trap. There I was locked fast across the chest. How I blessed myself that it was a humane man-trap!—Old Isaac escaped.—Here I am in bed and likely to be lame for life—plenty of time for reflection—begin to think myself an ass.

23rd.—Old Isaac not to be found—tracked the young fox—brought him to confession—both been plundering me every night from the beginning. Old Isaac stole my tools, and his brother sold them to me again. Young Isaac stole my tulips—together they stole my peaches and nectarines the night before my party, and the old knave, when I sent him to town for more, fetched my own from his cottage, and charged me with them.

25th.—A notice to-day, by which I learn that I have been imposed on by a swindling knave who had no right to sell me the place or take a premium—that the owner is coming from the continent and wants instant possession—never so thankful in my life—better already—pack up—send for van—hire omnibus for wife, children, and light luggage—go gently myself with poor Dick in a coach.

26th.—Here comes the omnibus. Huzza!