The Comic Almanack, Volume 2 / An Ephemeris in Jest and Earnest, Containing Merry Tales, Humerous Poetry, Quips, and Oddities

Valentines have hitherto been sentimental. This is a sad mistake in a matter-of-fact age, when Love may knock at a person's door long enough before he will be admitted, unless he comes handsomely dressed, and with his pockets full of money. The old conventional altar, with a couple of hearts on it pierced through with a skewer, which postmen leave at houses wrapped up in pink covers, on the 14th of February, is but sorry fare for young ladies who have been educated upon a hot luncheon every day, and who would sooner have a basin of turtle than the prettiest pair of pigeons that were ever served up with pink ribbon on the best satin paper! Lovers forget that we are a nation of shopkeepers, and should play their counters accordingly. How much better, instead of sending an immense tulip with a gentleman sitting inside of it, it would be to forward a small view of their fortune, drawn out in gold and silver on their banker's cheque-book! Ladies might not take the trouble to look under the paper rose, which when pulled out discloses the portrait of a spooney Adonis, in a blue coat and black moustachios; but a sketch of what the same "Spooney" intended to do, when married, in the way of a carriage or an opera-box, would be a puzzle which every young lady could but be deeply interested in finding out. Beauty is completely a matter of taste; but a good establishment, with unlimited millinery, powdered footman, violets all the year round, and subscription to the French plays, is a simple thing which no two mammas could possibly dispute about, and which every well-regulated daughter must appreciate at the very first glance. In fact, the more such a Valentine was looked at, the more it would be admired. The question nowadays is not, whether you are handsome—that concerns your looking-glass only—but whether your fortune has a handsome figure. Hymen has gone completely into the commercial line; and the closer Valentines resemble advertisements, the easier young gentlemen who offer themselves at a "tremendous sacrifice," will find themselves go off. Cupid has turned butcher-boy, and it is wonderful how he has enlarged his business since he has taken to serving his customers with something richer than a couple of sheep's hearts every day for dinner! For further inquiries, the young lady is referred to the plate opposite.

PROBLEMS RATHER DIFFICULT OF SOLUTION.

THE MOST DIFFICULT PROBLEM OF ALL.

THE STOCK MARKET.

Old Gentleman.—Oh! my boy, you have called for the paper, have you? Well, I suppose you read everything—know of course all the news. I shouldn't be at all surprised now that you can tell me the price of stocks?

Newspaper Boy (very quickly).—Two bunches a penny, sir.

FULL MOURNING AND HALF MOURNING.

In this age of costumes, when everybody cries out for a particular dress, from a Puseyite to a charity boy, we think the poor shopmen in the Mourning Depôts have been shabbily overlooked. The Half Mourning Gentlemen should be dressed in the style of the old pictures seen in Wardour Street, one half black, the other white. And the Full Mourning Gentlemen, who have to wait on disconsolate widows, and offer them a choice of weeds, should be black from head to foot, and that effect not produced by art but by the hand of nature. No Ethiopian artificiality, but a real Nigger reality.

New Year's Day.—Now kill your dragon, for the friendly game of snap, and hire your blind-man, only take care he is a good buffer. Now get your needle ready for the purpose of threading, and hunt everywhere for a slipper, only if there is a wood pavement in the neighbourhood, you need not go far to pick up one. Now riddle your company well with conundrums, and bore them with acting charades, till every one is tired of the fun, and fairly gives it up.

The Height of Cowardice.—Kicking a man with a wooden leg.

A CURIOUS INQUIRY.
BY A MEMBER OF THE ANIMALS' FRIEND SOCIETY.

I wonder with what feelings does a cat contemplate a fiddle? Does the sight of it move his bowels of compassion? Does he look upon it as the hated persecutor of his innocent race for years? Is he vindictive against it? Does some inward voice tell him that on that very spot was murdered perhaps one of his dearest relations? Does he feel prompted to revenge? Does it ever strike him that it may be his own case to-morrow? If a cat feels all this, then the sight of a fiddle cannot be the pleasantest object in the world to him, and I fancy I see in my mind's eye a family of orphan kittens weeping over a violin as the cruel instrument of their father's death. But, alas! it's all fiddle-de-dee. Cats have no feelings, or else every Tom in every village would be a Hamlet!

How To begin the New Year.—The first thing is to take one year off your age. Recollect every year you grow older you are one year younger. Ladies are not restricted to any number. He must be a fine bore indeed who succeeds in piercing a lady's years!

How to put down Repeal in Ireland.—Agitate for it in England.

Poor Brook Green was always too ready to display his ignorance. Nothing could restrain him, when he found a good opportunity A gentleman was showing the Elgin marbles to some ladies in the British Museum, when Green rushed up to him, and said in the most positive manner, "Excuse me, sir, but I think you called those stones marbles!" "I did, sir," replied the gentleman, rather surprised. "Well, but now look at them, really you cannot call them marbles." "But I do, sir, I maintain that they are," exclaimed the gentleman in a simmering passion; "do you pretend to tell me that they are not the Elgin marbles?" "Pooh, pooh," said Green, with a contemptuous smile, "it's ridiculous—you can't be serious." "Since they are not the Elgin marbles, then, sir, perhaps you can tell me what they are?" "Oh! that's not for me to say," answered Brook Green; "but I can only assure these ladies that they're a precious deal more skittles than marbles," and he walked away quite triumphantly.

Smith and Jones were looking over a new portrait of Buggins, painted by Muggins. "It's too dark, much too dark," said Jones, "you can hardly see a thing." "I tell you what it is," exclaimed Smith, "the lights want bringing up; what do you say, Green? Don't you think the portrait would look all the better if the lights were brought up?" "Certainly," he said, and he left the room. They were wondering what had become of him when he walked in five minutes afterwards with a pair of lighted candles. "My dear Green," said Smith, "what have you brought those candles for?" "Come, that's cool," answered poor Brook; "didn't you say the lights wanted bringing up?" Jones gave him one of his frowns which lasted five minutes.

He thought every one was imposing on him, and no wonder, for he was being hoaxed almost every minute of his life. "What's this!" he asked, whilst looking over some engravings. "That's Cleopatra's needle, sir." "Well, on my word it's very like a needle, and a stitch of it must have saved nine of any other needle;" and he laughed away as if he had made the very best joke in the world. "And what is this, pray?" he asked, taking up another engraving "Why, sir, that is the great Pyramid." "Nonsense, my dear fellow, you make a mistake; if the last was Cleopatra's needle, this one must be her thimble," and he gave the shopman such a dig in the ribs that he was kicked out of the shop.

"Look at that idiot!" he cried, pointing to a man who was leading a watering-cart; "will you believe it, I have told him no less than ten times that all the water is running out of his cart, and yet he takes no notice of what I say."

You could persuade Green to believe any absurdity. "I wish you would step over to the Bedford, Green," said young Thomson, "and order me a dozen of port?" "I haven't the time," answered our hero. "Well, then, will you get me half a dozen; the deuce is in it, my good fellow, if you haven't time enough for that!" Green actually went; and he would do the same thing for you to-morrow. He has been known to get half way over a river, and then swim back again for fear of not reaching the opposite side. On another occasion he ordered a pair of globes, but sent them back because they were not exactly alike. He also had a sun-dial fitted up in his bedroom, to enable him, as he said, to rise every morning with the sun.

Brook Green's knowledge of literature was very superficial. The editor of the Quarterly made a wager with him once that he would not mention a single thing correctly out of Shakspeare. "Can't I, indeed!" he exclaimed; "why I know his works all through from beginning to end: first of all, there is a set of chessmen, then there are two dice-boxes, after that six dices, and lastly, a game of draughts. I'll just trouble you for the money, if you please." The poor fellow had always looked upon a backgammon board, which folded up like a book, as a copy of Shakspeare's Works, for so it was labelled; and he was quite indignant because the editor of the Quarterly would not pay him the wager, which he considered he had fairly won.

Agricultural.—Turn down your flower-beds to see if they are damp, and give them a good shaking. If they want airing, let them have an extra sheet of snow, and pass the warming-pan once or twice over them. Rub up your "Sweet William" with tallow, and let your "Old Bachelor" have a warm bath the last thing at night, if you fancy he has caught cold.

Direction for Husbands.—All the wards of a latch-key should be home-wards.

We wonder the ladies never agitated for the reduction of the duty off tea. They should have formed an "Anti-Tea League." If they had only laid their tongues together, the death-rattle of the duty would have sounded for ever. The noise would have made ministers tremble, and the great wall of China would have shaken like a row of plates on a kitchen dresser with the tremendous reverberation. Imagine 12,000,000 tongues calling out "Repeal the duty off tea!" and then conceive, if you can, what the intensity of that clamour would be when every one of those 12,000,000 tongues was a female tongue! We pronounce this omission a terrible lapsus linguæ on the part of the Wives and Daughters and Grandmothers of England. Where, we ask, is Mrs. Ellis? that formidable female champion of Great Britain.

Let us suppose that this Utopia has arrived. Tea is free! Bohea has burst its fiscal fetters, and the "best black" is emancipated from its custom-house bonds. Now, it has been proved by every political economist that the cheapening of an article always increases its consumption. What oceans of tea then will be drank when the luxury can be procured at six farthings a cup cheaper! "A dish of tea" will be magnified into a soup-tureen; urns will swell into the size of beer-barrels; and a tea-caddy will assume the dimensions of nothing smaller than a corn-bin. The carts of "No. One, St. Paul's," will vie in grandeur with Barclay and Perkins' drays; and John will be told to go down into the cellar "to bring up another hogshead of the Best Sixpenny Mixed." Scandal, which, next to the sloe, forms the principal ingredient in every brewing of tea, will increase also in proportion to the consumption. No one's reputation will be safe. It will be quite frightful to calculate the dear innocents who will die the death of kittens in the "social cup," and the innumerable characters that will be put into scalding water, and scraped as clean as bitter-almonds, at every "Thé Réunion!" Washer-women too—the greatest trait in whose amphibious characters is proverbially the tea-tray—will be in a state of celestial scan. mag. all day, and will fine-draw their customers' respectability at the same time that they mangle their linen. Female society, in short, will grow into a species of Inhumane Society; and inquests will be held amongst gentlemen after dinner on the lost reputation of their friends, and the verdict will be "Felo-de-se at Mrs. Candour's Tea-party," or "Found Drowned in a Teetotaller's slop-basin." Husbands of England! beware of Cheap Tea, or else the sugar-tongs may be turned against you in the same way that St. Dunstan treated a certain French gentleman by the nose.

LAYS OF MODERN BABYLON.
BY YOUNG WHAT D' Y' CALLY.
(AGED NINE YEARS AND A DAY.)
OLD MOTHER HUBBARD AND HER DOG.

DIFFICULT THINGS TO BE MET WITH ON THE
CONTINENT.

A table d'hôte without a single Smith.

A monument that has not an English name upon it.

A waiter at any of the hotels on the Rhine that does not sell eau-de-Cologne.

A bit of soap that can be persuaded to lather.

A Frenchman on the field of the Battle of Waterloo.

Two fine young Englishmen dining without champagne.

A Dutchman on the top of the spire of Strasburg Cathedral.

A Commissionaire, or a Conducteur, or a Portier, that has not served in the Imperial Guard.

A Frenchman speaking any language but his own, an Englishman that looks happy, a German that looks clean, or a pig that has the slightest resemblance to a Christian pig.

The precise rule of arithmetic by which hotel bills, particularly in Switzerland, are made out.

An Irishman, a Welshman, and a Gascon travelling together.

A party of English ladies the payment of whose luggage does not far exceed their railway-fare.

A looking-glass without a group of Frenchmen before it.

A regular John Bull returning home who is not glad to get back again to England.

ABSENTEES AND EMIGRANTS DURING 1847.

Lucy Neale has returned, after a sojourn of many months, to Ethiopia, where it is to be hoped she will pass the remainder of her days. She was accompanied by Mr. Daniel Tucker, Miss Mary Blane, a large suite of buffalo gals, and other sable bores. Specie to a very large amount was carried off by Bones, and his numerous instruments.

The Twelve Flounces which were conspicuous last year in the most fashionable circles, and were seen everywhere dangling after the heels of the finest ladies, have likewise left the shores of England. It has been said they have been "tucked up" comfortably in France.

The Wood Pavement has broken up its numerous establishments about town, and is now nearly swept away from the surface of London. Wood has been turned out of the city as well as Middlesex, though it was thought he would have been returned at the head of the poll, so numerous were the plumpers he received from the immense bodies of the corporation. He has been dreadfully cut up lately, and has retired into private life, for no one is better qualified to shine on the domestic hearth than Wood. When he is in one of his lively sparkles, every one draws in a circle round him, and even the coldest person holds out a hand to him, and is glad to stir him up.

Tom Thumb is at present in America, after having made his fortune in England, like a pastrycook, by selling kisses. He was the first to start the cheap 'busses. He has lately been married to a dwarf. Barnum, his keeper, says the marriage must be a happy one, for there can be no doubt about wearing the breeches, since husband and wife only make up between them

The British Drama.—It has gone no one knows where. It is at present an absentee, but is expected to come before the public again shortly. Rumour says it is on a visit to Mr. Macready. It could not have a better guardian, for it is not the first time Mr. Macready has proved himself a perfect host for the British Drama. The last accounts, however, were that it was stopping at the Wells for the benefit of the waters, and that it was so far improved in health as to be able to draw a very large house.

The Old Parliament.—It left England last July, after an unusually long residence in London of seven years. It has left behind one representative, called "Free Trade," now aged two years. According to the latest inquiries, "it was doing as well as could be expected."

Eton Montem.—For particulars of this absentee, please inquire at the different masquerade shops.

"Smash" is a word peculiarly the property of the "Fast Man." We believe it means to break, demolish, crush, annihilate. Like repudiation, it is of American origin, for we recollect there is the elegant Yankee term, "eternal smash." A "smasher," consequently, is one who smashes; and the Universal Smasher is a young gentleman whose particular vocation and amusement is to smash everything and everybody.

We remember meeting with one, after the first night of a new comedy, at a popular café, where the clever young wits of the day mostly congregate to lay down the law for England upon fashion, literature, cigars, royalty, casinos, metaphysics, ballet-girls, and morality.

He attracted our notice first by speaking very loudly, and calling out, in a voice as voluminous as the late lamented Mr. Toole's, "Waiter, another bottle of ginger-beer!" It was not so much the order, as the martial tone in which it was conveyed, that first awakened our curiosity. We expected, at least, to see a giant. We turned round and only found a pigmy. It was our wonder how so big a voice could find a residence in so small a body. But if the voice was immense, what were the sentiments that we afterwards heard emanate from the same lips!

The poor author, whose piece but two minutes ago had been announced amidst the greatest applause "for every night until further notice," was declared to be "an impudent nobody." Every one of his brilliant jokes was stolen; all his points, only points gained by cribbage. The young gentleman before us traced the pedigree of every epigram, gave the descent of each witticism, proved the birth of the plot, and established beyond a doubt the parentage of each separate scene. "A comedy, sir! It's no more a comedy than Joe Miller's a comedy. Dramatise a Jest Book—give it a proverb for a title, and you will have a better comedy than that. I tell you what it is, sir,—Jones must be smashed!"

He had no sooner come to this decision than there sounded and resounded a tremendous echo of long-repeated "hip-hip-hurrahs!" We inquired whence they came. It was a supper-party upstairs commemorating the glorious triumph of the evening. Poor Jones! he little thought that moment, when probably he was returning thanks for his health, and was full of joy, champagne, and the happy intoxication of success, that the decree had just been irrevocably passed that "he must be smashed!"

The conversation travelled on. Our unknown friend next criticised the actors. One was "a stick," another a "pump;" the gentlemen were "muffs;" the ladies something that may be conceived, but cannot be printed. The unhappy manager even did not escape. "He had never seen a piece worse put upon the stage. It would disgrace a penny theatre. By Heavens! he would show him up—such a humbug must be smashed!"

We looked with awe upon this wholesale "smasher." We trembled lest we should be the next victim, and involuntarily curled ourselves up in the dark corner of the box to avoid his destructive notice.

A stranger who came in happened to lay upon the table a series of engravings, which had just been published, and were selling, it was reported, most extensively. "Excuse me, sir," he said, taking up one of them; "I hope you've not been buying this rubbish? It is nothing but a rank imitation of Hogarth—without any of his talent, execution, or purpose. It is satire diluted to the weakest gin and water. The fellow who has put his name to it deserves to be smashed, and I have a good mind to do it."

"In mercy, I hope, you will change your mind, sir," said the stranger, rising and taking off his hat; "or at all events, that you will stop till I have had my supper. You wouldn't smash a poor 'fellow' with an empty stomach, surely?" and he held out his hand with smiling good-humour to his intended "smasher."

The laugh went against the latter, and seemingly it did not sweeten much the fine cordial spirit through which he viewed men and things.

In the course of the general conversation "Macbeth" was mentioned. "Macbeth!" he exclaimed; "a stupid, vulgar melodrama, only fit for the Britannia Saloon. Why, it wouldn't succeed at the present day unless it was brought out as a pantomime with plenty of blue fire. In my opinion, Shakspeare is a tremendous do—I don't hesitate to say so—and I should like uncommonly to smash him."

Tennyson shortly afterwards was declared to be deserving of the same fate.

Byron also was a great mistake; Walter Scott, too, was no better, and they ought both of them to be smashed.

Shelley was an impudent pretender, and ought properly to have been smashed long ago. By Jove, he'd do it some day!

It was poor Goldsmith's turn next; but he relented, saying, with a mutilated sigh, he was scarcely worth smashing.

But Milton was "a ponderous take-in—a violent mistake." He was very good for old women, no doubt, but as heavy as cold dumpling; and nothing but sheer starvation could force him down his throat. He wished to Heaven some one would smash him!

Present authors were knocked on the head in the same heavy pavior's-hammer style of criticism. Who was Dickens, pray? only an inventory-taker! What was Bulwer? the hero of sixteen novels! James was a drug—a perfect James's powder: Sheridan Knowles a Fitzball in blank verse! And as for the ladies, they were all—poetesses, novelists, political economists, and generous Newgate visitors—the whole Fry of them, smashed indiscriminately of a heap! We wonder how so many of them have survived.

We never witnessed such cruel slaughter. It was a regular battle of great men and noble characters. Everybody, no matter how high or low in the world, was fair game for this Universal Smasher. His mouth was a Perkins' steam-gun, firing a hundred small shot every minute. Papers and periodicals were brought down by the same process of sharp-shooting. The Times ought decidedly to be smashed. It only wanted three good men to do it;—he'd put his name down for one. The Spectator was a block of Wenham ice—not even fit for sherry-cobblers. The Athenæum was an immense but, that butted at everybody. The Examiner bowstringed the Queen's English, and strangled common-sense. And as for Punch, it was a damp squib—that was fizzing, or attempting to fizz, every week; and the sooner it was smashed the better!

We felt uneasy in the presence of such a tremendous man. We longed to possess the faculty of the telescope, and slide into our selves one-sixth of our natural length. We felt confident, if we remained much longer exposed to the blows of one who hit so hard, that we should inevitably be smashed into such very small bits that if we were ever put together again we should always be pointed at afterwards as the most curious specimen of mosaic. A runaway engine in a crockery shop could not create a greater feeling of alarm amongst the cups and saucers than that infernal little smashing machine imparted to our fragile nature. We need not say, therefore, how relieved we felt when a venerable bald head in the room rose, and very quietly said, "Gentlemen, we have heard and seen a deal of smashing to-night. Everybody, great and small, has been smashed in his turn. Not a person, living or dead, has the slightest reason to complain; they have all been smashed fairly and equally together. Now, I only want to know, after our friend has smashed everybody—which he must do if he goes on at the present rapid rate—whatever will he do ultimately with himself?"

"Oh! leave him alone," we could not help exclaiming; "he'll smash himself!"

There was a general laugh, and the Universal Smasher left the room, giving us, as he passed us, such a look that we felt we were doomed. That look clearly said—it pierced us like an arrow with a message tied to it—"To be smashed in our next." We hope all benevolent souls will pray for us!

"Who is he?" we asked, as soon as we breathed again.

"Don't you know?" said our neighbour, with the greatest astonishment. "He's Brown!"

"Who's Brown?" we inquired, in a faltering voice, and a cold shiver.

"It's strange you never heard of Brown! He's the editor of the Penny Whistle."

"Oh, indeed!"

We have inquired everywhere—we have offered any sum of money—we have begged and prayed of newsvendors and friends, and bookstall-hunters, to buy us, at any price, the Penny Whistle; but we have not seen yet that fearful work of extermination. We now offer a reward of 100l., and our blessing, to anybody who will send us a copy of it, no matter how dirty it may be. We shall not be happy till we know positively whether we are smashed or not!

THE RESPECTABLE MAN.