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

Our pretty little pack of Belgrave Square Harriers had their first winter meeting on Thursday last at Lady Hurtleberry's.

It is impossible to conceive a more desirable place for the sport of their hunting than her Ladyship's. The gorgeous rose-coloured damask hangings give the finest possible tone to the complexion, the purple-flowered tapis sets off the foot to the greatest advantage, whilst a grand piano by Broadwood, and a harp by Erard, afford the most convenient opportunities for the display of accomplishments.

The "meet" took place at nine o'clock precisely, and a better "room" could not be desired.

As each member of the Hunt keeps her own harriers at "Walk," the first Meeting is always interesting from the number of new "drafts." In addition, therefore, to those harriers that hunted last season, with all of whom you are well acquainted, the following new entries were made:—

Lady Browbeater's Lucy Jane; "too short in the head," to my fancy.

The Hon. Mrs. Rattletrap's Julia Rose; a lively creature, and "gives tongue" beautifully.

Mrs. Major Fubbs's Clementina Louisa; very dumpy and dull—sure to be "latter'd."

Mrs. General Rowdedow's Lucidora; all that heart could wish—fine nose, capital mouth, splendid chest, and a forehand and arm of perfect symmetry.

There were one or two others introduced during the evening, but none of them possessed the necessary qualifications for the Belgrave Square Harriers. "The beaters" upon this occasion had been my brother Charles, whose Captaincy, by purchase, depends upon my being eligibly married off papa's hands; young Musparrot, similarly circumstanced; and old Major Muggs with four daughters, aged respectively twenty-six, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, and thirty.

They had great fears at one time that our first meet would prove "blank," as they had beat up all the clubs during September and October without "pricking" an Heir either apparent or presumptive. Major Muggs had the good fortune to hit upon a track at last, and a finer specimen I never saw during my short experience. Five feet eleven, Roman nose, D'Orsay whiskers, and said to be worth twelve thousand a year when of age in January next. He was found lying in some elegantly furnished apartments in the Albany, sitting on a beautiful form of velvet. As soon as he made his appearance in the enclosure at Lady Hurtleberry's the pack was laid on. Amelia Frog-morton "challenged" first; I, you may be sure, was not slow in answering her.

The Heir first made for a Polka Quadrille, closely waited on by Amelia, with myself for a vis-à-vis. Having got as far as Pastorale, he "doubled" round by the piano, Mary Warbleton having "turned him" by Jenny Lind's Ran tan plan, from Il Figlia del Regimento. He then "took away" to the card room, but being "headed" by my brother Charles, who was purposely stationed in the doorway, he made for the harp, where I pressed him very hard with Bochsa's Fancies. He doubled again, and ran straight to the supper-room, closely followed by the entire pack, but the champagne coming on pretty briskly, Lady Hurtleberry thought it right to "call us off" for the evening, the Heir being ultimately bagged by the Major and Musparrot, and carried to the —— Club; for what purpose I leave you to guess. The Heir has been "turned down" twice since, and already shows symptoms of distress. I have not the least doubt that in a short time longer, I, yes I, my dear Eliza, shall have the pleasure (but this is entre nous) of introducing you to a real juggled heir.

By-the-bye, I must send you a copy of a song written by that rattlepate Rattletraps. It is to the air of

THE LANGUAGE OF VEGETABLES.

We do not think there is in the whole history of letters anything more beautiful than the two following specimens. Any one acquainted with the vegetable vocabulary cannot fail to be touched deeply by them.

The first was addressed to Sigismond by his devoted wife Toot-sichfootsich, when he was imprisoned by Kalbskopf II. in the impregnable fortress of Dummerkerl, in the Spitzbübe mountains, in Moldavia.

The originals, and the monuments of Sigismond's wonderful escape, are still preserved, with the greatest reverence, by the proud descendants of his wife's noble family. Admirers of conjugal affection have been known to journey to the Spitzbübe Mountains purposely to look at them. The first letter was scratched with a pin on a large cabbage leaf, and sent into the castle wrapped round a pound of butter:—

"Beloved Greens!—Dry thy Onions. There is Cabbage in the horizon. Suppress thy Spinage, there's a darling Bean. Support thy Haricots with Beetroot, and never let young Radish leave thy dear Asparagus. May Pickled Gherkins watch over thee, and Early Peas strew Mashed Potatoes, with Blessed Chickweed, over thy suffering Turniptop! Where is thy boastod Sourkrout? Have a little Brocoli, my own sweet Bean; and put thy Chickweed in Parsley. There is Tomata yet for both of us, so pray hide thy Cauliflower for a few short Sprouts, and Capers must soon be ours! Confide in Mangel-würzel. I enclose thee a hundred Greens from the bottom of my Green Stuff, and remain, my fondest Beetroot,

The answer, though in a humbler strain, was not less eloquent. It was rolled up in little crumbs of bread, which were made into the shape of pills, and thrown out of the prisoner's window:—

"My sweetest Marrowfat!—My Asparagus is well nigh bursting. My Salad is overflowing, and I cannot rest at night from too much Mustard seed. Send me, an thou hopest hereafter for Asparagus, a Scarlet-Runner, and a small Cow Cabbage. Trust in Sage, and throw thyself fondly on Watercress.

The Scarlet-Runner, which is the vegetable emblem for a file, was hidden in the heel of a boot, and the Cow Cabbage, which is the beautiful synonym for a rope, smuggled in to the poor prisoner through a large German sausage, of which he was passionately fond. He escaped that very night, and repaid with the affection of a whole life the devotion of his attached "Marrowfat," that is to say his wife; we do not give a translation of these memorable letters, as we wish our readers to refer to the Language of Vegetables itself; for we feel it is so fascinating a science that when once they go into it, they will not leave a single vegetable unturned till they have got to the root of every word.

If marriages are made in heaven, what a pity the happy pair should leave the place directly, upon a mere matter of ceremony!

If thou stoodest outside the door, thy hand upon the handle, hast thou ever paused to arrange thy curls, and to pull up thy collar, and to inspect first thy wristbands, and then thy boots? If so, thou hast loved, ay, and madly too.

If a good name were purchasable, how few would avail themselves of the luxury if they had to pay ready money for it!

If there is really "luck in odd numbers," we can account for the curious fact of so many ladies stopping half of their lives at the age of thirty-nine.

If two is company, and three is none, what a very melancholy time old Cerberus must have of it!

If "distance lends enchantment to the view," then the British Drama ought to hold out to speculators the most enchanting views in the world, for never were its prospects so distant as at the present moment.

If Napoleon had won the battle of Waterloo, Gomersal must have died comparatively unknown.

If man and wife had a plate glass to their hearts, how long would they remain together?

If soda-water had only been known in the time of Alexander, it is but fair to conclude that the murder of Clytus never would have taken place.

If England were to be divided to-morrow morning equally among all its inhabitants, we should not like to be the man whose dismal lot for life turned out to be Trafalgar Square!

If Janus really had two faces, we deeply pity him, if he ever drank a tumbler of Vauxhall punch, for he must have had the following morning two headaches instead of one!

If animals could speak, we can imagine the first words a donkey would address to man would be "Et tu brute."

If there were no "if's" in the world, there would be no arguments; no rules of three; no political economy; no more ingenious speculations about the fate of Europe if England had lost the battle of Waterloo (if it had, several shareholders would never have lost their money on Waterloo Bridge, by-the-bye); no more letters from Joseph Ady about certain valuable information if a sovereign is sent by return of post; no more liberal promises from fathers as to what they will do if their sons will only improve, and keep good hours; no more financial experiments (Sir Robert Peel's scheme for the income-tax was only one elongated "if," and its repeal is a still more extended one); and lastly, this clever little article upon "if's" never would have been written, if there had been no such word in the language as "if."

Tom, my boy, how are you? Precious slack here, I can tell you; business never was so dull. I haven't had an Atrocious Murder on my hands these three months. If this panic continues I shall be so much out of practice that I'm blessed if I shall know how to do a Murder when a good opportunity occurs. Unless some good lady has the kindness to kill her husband—(how fashions change! I can recollect the time when husbands used to kill their wives: however, it's all the same)—I must starve, without having the chance either of making a penny by my own death. By-the-bye, I have had serious ideas lately of committing an "Awful Suicide"—don't be startled, I mean only in the papers. I have reckoned it up, and find that I should make nearly a sovereign by it—a temptation, my tulip, in these times, and well worth an imaginary duck in the Thames.

See, my dear Tom, I make it out as follows:—

Now I know, Tom, this would be unprofessional, but really in times like these, when a capital execution scarcely turns up once a year, it doesn't do for a person to be over nice; besides, if I do extinguish my vital spark for six days, where's the great harm? Not a person sustains the slightest injury; I have no relations to blackguard me afterwards for not dying. I have no heirs to sue the paper for damages; I have no grandmothers to be hurried into an early grave by the intelligence; and I get a week's dinners by dying at a time I was never more puzzled how to live. My table, I can assure you, has not groaned under the luxuries of the season for ever so long. So where is the great sin of leaving this sublunary sphere for seven days, if I cannot keep soul and body together without it? Psha! it's all affectation, and I have a good mind to try an Awful Suicide to-morrow; and, to make it more interesting, call myself "a Gentleman of Fortune." All this scarcity comes of educating people, and the march of intellect, and the rage for improvements! Did you ever hear such nonsense? Why, I suppose civilization will be taking such rapid strides that the wood pavement—(I hope you have got one in your place; the bit of wood in the Strand lit my fires for two winters running: what a field it was for accidents, to be sure! I used to pick up two a day)—will be cut eventually from under our feet, and we shan't have a bit of orange-peel, or a slide even, to stand upon, or as much as a drop of prussic-acid to warm our hearts with before going to bed of a cold night. It's all a mistake; and if I am a victim to it I shall lay my death at the door of civilization, and charge them with it. Why, the cabs are nothing to what they used to be—they wont upset; and I do really believe the omnibus conductors are getting civil, merely to spite us. The lightning conductors, too, are very little better. I haven't been able to drink your health in a drop of electric fluid for many a day. Where it will end none of us can tell. The steamers have done a little for business, it's true, and I expect they will do a great deal more for us; but what, I ask you, is a Cricket amongst so many? Besides, one doesn't get such a good blow-out every day. Education, I see, will be the ruin of us all. I have serious thoughts of turning an informer, and reporting my own cases; or, if it comes to the worst, of going over to Dublin, and stopping there patiently till the row at Conciliation Hall begins. I wish it would take place to-morrow! They are a long time about it for Irishmen; for the winter is coming on, and I must give up all thoughts of coals, unless I get a good Destructive Fire or two. Candles, too, come dear when you cannot find, search where you will, the smallest bit of Seasonable Benevolence to pay for them. There's only Railways left us. Do you know, I drink the health of that dear Eastern Counties every time I am lucky enough to get an Awful Accident out of it. Why, Tom, my boy, I was only thinking this morning, as I was leaning over London Bridge, hoping an ill wind would blow me something good, that I would start a railway, and so make my own Accidents, and write them, for greater accuracy, on the spot. I might contract with the different papers to supply them cheap all the year round. But then I recollected, and a burning tear bedewed my eye, that that line of luck was all over, that the poor stags were fairly run off their legs, and that an end had been put for ever to Capel Court. Twelve months sooner, and the thing might have been done. I only wish I was in Hudson's shoes, that's all. What a deal of money I would make, 'lining—wouldn't I, just!

Well, Tom, I must leave you. The neighborhood has just been thrown into the greatest consternation by an "Enormous Gooseberry." I run to measure it with an India-rubber band, for that stretches the best. I hope it is a crammer; at all events I must make it large enough to serve me for dinner, and leave me something to fill my pipe with afterwards. Good-bye, Tom. I hope Liverpool (you lucky fellow, you had the Fever all last winter; you ought to have made your fortune, too, with the Irish) is better off in Accidents—it is much richer I know in Fires—than London. If not, I will make this agreement with you: you shall have my Inhuman Neglect by the Parish Authorities, if you bequeath me your Awful Death by Starvation. Is that a bargain?

The Ether's a failure; not a single explosion worth having. Can't you send me up a Shower of Frogs in your next letter? You shall have an Infamous Hoax by return. I say, the American Sea-serpent has not had a turn lately, or the Oldest Inhabitant, and, entre nous, Lord B—h—m has not been killed once these seven years; I have got his Life all ready. I will toss you for him, if you like. What do you say? Two out of three? or Sudden Death?

Young Flimsy was complaining at the Blue Bottle last night of the pressure of the Times. He said he had a most "Wonderful Appetite" on Thursday, and invited half-a-dozen "liners" to supper on the strength of it, but the Currency deprived him of every penny, notwithstanding he had a Curious Case of Instinct, which he made sure would bring him in half-a-crown.

Address to me at the Illustrated Weekly Murder Sheet Office.

ILLUSTRATED CONUNDRUM.
(THE OLDEST ON RECORD.)

A drizzling mist begins to fall. The clock of St. Clement's strikes seven. A November fog lowers its invidious veil over the bright face of London. I hurry on, impatient to listen to the rival strains of the cricket and kettle, who, I know from a mysterious singing in my ears, are gaily carolling on my hearth in Clare Market. "There is no place like home!"

With these thoughts I redouble my speed, even as the jaded cab-horse quickens his broken knees when he sees in his mind's eye, through distant streets, the door of the livery stable. The fog has the thickness of repeated blankets. It is no light task for a blind dame to thread a needle in the dark. That task, however, is as light as the sun with 20,000 additional lamps on its birthday, compared to the difficulty of threading Temple Bar in a fog! But patience, like the boy Jones, will get through anything.

I have shaken off the mud of the city: I breathe the balmy smoke of Westminster. My high-low, or rather my high-lows (for I have two) heat once more the proud Strand. I pass the antique apple-woman on my left; on my right I leave Holloway and his far-famed leg of twenty years' standing—that Wandering Jew of advertisements which is perpetually running through the papers. I drop a sympathetic pill to the memory of Aldborough. Proud Earl! Never did mortal lay the flattering ointment to his soul as thou hast done! I hurry onward.

But what fragrant perfume, stolen or strayed from Araby the Blest, plays round my nostrils? It cannot be the fog, for it is so like stewed eels. It salutes my nose with all the warmth of a long-absent friend. I follow it, as Hamlet did the Ghost. An invisible attraction pulls me gently on, even as the magnetic duck which a child leads where he will by applying a load-stone to its nasal organ. I neither see, nor feel, nor hear; I only smell. My whole nature is standing on the bridge of my nose. How blind is man! In my ardour I have nearly upset a respectable stranger: I beg his most unadulterated pardon a hundredfold; but he heeds me not. A rich necklace of pies, Twickenham's fairest jewellery, dazzles his weak vision, and fastens, as with a golden hook, all his eyes. He is under a Savory spell, longing for More. A hundred appetites glisten from his cavernous brows. Epicurus and Dando seem to have chosen his high cheek-bones for their respective thrones. His mouth opens and shuts a thousand times, just like the Strand Theatre opposite; but, alas! takes in nothing by each new motion. Hunger could not well have spared a leaner Frenchman. Poor Monsieur! I have disturbed thy joyous reverie, and would fain make amends for it. "Here is sixpence to buy thyself luscious pies, freighted with all the boundless wealth of the generous eel." But he is as deaf as a relation that is rich. His thoughts are seated at the rich banquet within.

The parish engine is pulled along by a lusty beadle, like an invalid chair at Brighton by one of the plethoric Sons of Plush. Six little boys subscribe their voices and their strength, but there is more of the former than the latter. There is merriment in Drury Lane; loud cries of "Fire" play gaily upon the ear. Even a policeman—that rarest object of vertu—is seen. He illuminates for two seconds the busy scene with the "light in his laughing eye" of bull. The fire-escape is unrolled, like a tall mummy, from its dark slumber of ages, and stretches its spider limbs high into the air as it yawns again into life. It crawls, like a centipede on its hind leg, as far as Temple Bar, and there draws itself up, like a big note of exclamation, and makes a full stop. Peradventure it reaches the fire three days afterwards. There is a time for all things.

But whose is that ecstatic figure? It is as familiar to my vision as Cooper in George Barnwell. Who can it be? Yes—no—yes! It cannot be! By St. Jullien, it is the dismal Child of France! The clock of St. Clement's strikes ten. What! Monsieur, hast thou for three foggy hours been poring over those self-same pies? Thy admiration smacks, methinks, of the bigot. Thou art indeed an enthusiast. Hie thee to Soyer! Catch him between a poem and a pâté, bursting with the richest stuffing of the goose—I mean the pâté. Perform the same rites before his household pans of stew; let thy every limb speak thy admiration, and my head of hair, bought but yesterday at Truefitt's, he will give thee, for half such prodigal worship, thy weight in pies, be they of gooseberry or mutton, or the ham and veal dedicated to Thespis, or even the delicate eel, the dear object of thy silent love! Concealment has indeed fed upon thy damask cheek, and picked it—would I could say clean!—to the bone. "Voici, mon Noble Seigneur, de quoi te régaler." He sees not the proffered Joseph; he hears not my tones, sweet with charity. He stirs not: he stands on holy pavement. Poor Frenchman, I would tarry with thee, but I must rush me home to supper. Haven't I tripe waiting kindly for me! My clay, too, points to heavy wet; and my pewter will lose its head if I am not quickly with it. Adieu.

Night has spread its shutters over London. All is still, save a spirituous cry of "Va-ri-e-ty," that comes at muffled intervals leaping through the air. There is not a Gent to be seen. Even Lord Ellam has retired to his bed under the ducal counter. Sleep snores heavily in the Strand, and the nightmare rules in the City. All humanity, save editors and milkmen, is between the sheets.

All, did I say? It is false. There is one figure still, very still, on its legs. He is no purveyor of chalk, or human kindness. He is not a thief either, save one of Time; and better to rob him than Rogers' bank,—though, it is true, the notes may be stopped, but the minutes, alas! never. Whose is that figure? Egad! It is the Frenchman's.

There he stands, opposite the same identical emporium. He is wrapt in mystery and a Spanish cloak, with a collar borrowed from the poodle. He has not moved the whisper of a pig to the right or to the left. What fearful secret can chain him to that awful spot?

His iron glances seem as if they would pierce like nails at tenpence a-piece the shutters of that Depôt. The hunger on his countenance is not yet appeased. I offer him an Havannah, the best that the Green of Turnham can produce. He answers me only with a sallow smile. No complaint escapes his lips, though it is clear as Thames water that is filtered that he is ill at ease. Ah! perhaps he is doing penance for some early crime? Perhaps it is a vow he has registered in some album to please his Love? Perhaps—but I waste the valuable ink of the printer with these idle sur-mises; be the awful cause what it will, from the bottom of my purse, noble stranger from the noble Land of the Cancan, I do feel for thee! Thou wouldst never remain outside a piscatorial pastrycook's for nine long hours, transfixed like a pose plastique (only thou art dressed), unless there were some strange mystery at the bottom of it!

I cannot sleep. My pillow is burning hot. Fever shares my bed. The vision of that unhappy Frenchman keeps pulling aside the curtains, and crying aloud in my ear, "Curiosity doth murder sleep." It is too true! Who can close his eyes, though they be weighed down with two bottles of port, of the best Public Dinner vintage, and sealed with the smoke of three-times-ten cigars, when he has a secret gnawing at his heart? I don my morning suit, and walk breathless, breakfastless to the Strand.

Clerks are plodding to their high stools in the City. All waistcoats are turned towards St. Paul's. Omnibuses are laden with cashiers—strict lovers of punctuality—who eat, and drink, and sleep, and make love, by the chronometer. The antique apple-woman is putting on her great coat, the relic of her late relict, a deceased cabman. Holloway determines to have an immense spread, and lays down a roll of ointment eight yards without a seam. Newspaper boys sing in quires as they canter along with wet bundles under their arms. The sun rises; the puddles reflect its golden smiles; the cocks and hens visit their daily cab-stand; the postman's knock is heard; the clock of St. Clement's strikes nine. London has begun a new day.

But what are these facts to me? No more than Spanish Bonds, for I do not even look at them. I have but one object in view, and that is the Frenchman.

But the cloak has disappeared, and the person inside it. His penance doubtless, is at an end—his humble vow fulfilled. He is gone: but, how strange! he has left his boots behind him. There they stand, in the middle of the pavement, bolt upright—one a Blucher, its companion a Wellington—as if they had risen out of the coal-cellar over night, like a couple of mushrooms. A phantom policeman attempts to take them up, but they are riveted to the spot. But, see! the poor exile comes this way: slippers are on his feet. He claims his boots. "Take them," says the man of law, bound in blue, and lettered B 32. No! They will not stir. He pulls them with a pair of boot-hooks, but if there were a Woman's Obstinacy in each sole, they could not maintain their ground more stoutly.

A pickaxe is brought. The boots are pulled up at length, but in company with the flag-stone. They are carried on the latter, as on a tray, before the magistrate. Their disconsolate owner follows them in his slippers. He unfolds his simple unadorned tale of woe. First he identifies the boots. The name of "Marquis de Carambole" appears inside each. Next he states he had been giving a lesson in French for sixpence to a family in the Lane of Leather. On his way home he stopped to admire some pies arrayed most temptingly in a sumptuous window. He tarried longer than he intended, but the luxury of the sight beguiled away the unconscious moments. He felt his feet getting very warm, but he thought it was only the grateful steam of the shop. He still looked on, turning over the sixpence alternately in his mind and in his pocket, whether he should spend it, or keep it to have his hair curled. At last he resolved on the rash purchase. He attempted to move, but his right foot was fastened to the pavement, and his left foot too; he was motionless; he was literally screwed—he had grown to the ground. He was riveted to the spot, not only in admiration, but in positive reality. For four interminable hours he endured worse than the torture of Tantalus, for eel pies were not known in the dark ages of Pluto. A feast was before him which he could not touch. Twelve o'clock at last put a friendly termination to his sufferings: the shop closed. He was left in the streets of London all by himself. He felt cold. His feet were benumbed, but he could not do anything to keep them warm. Stamping was out of the question, for he could not even lift them. A policeman told him once to "move on," but unfortunately he came like a shadow, and so departed. He thought of his landlord, of his tailor, of his washerwoman, of everything that was dear to him. A tear washed his cheek. He trembled like a creditor. He did not like to shout for aid, his position was so very ridiculous. At last necessity, the coldest he ever experienced, conquered his vanity. He cut his straps, and ran away like a second Napoleon, leaving Wellington and Blucher masters of the field. Having finished, the poor Orphan of France demands, in a voice of tears, that his boots may be restored to him.

"Certainly," says the urbane magistrate; "but you must first pay for the damage you have done to the pavement."

The poor Frenchman pleads that it is not his fault; but his plea is as bootless as himself.

A policeman, with the bump of science, craves leave to explain the mystery.

Leave is given to him; and, clearing his throat, he speaks thus:—"I think I can tell, sir, what is the mystery at the bottom of all this. It is Gutta Percha. This Gutta Percha, sir, is a new material of a waterproof substance; at first soluble, which afterwards hardens, and resists the action of water. It is used largely for boots. It is not proof, however, against heat. The consequence is that when it is exposed to a great warmth it becomes adhesive, and very tenacious of the footing it occupies. There is an instance of a cook whose Irish cousin was warming his feet at the fire; he had on soles made of Gutta Percha. His boots adhered to the hobs, and there he stuck in the kitchen for a fortnight till a frost came. It was called Hobbes' 'Essay on the Understanding.'"

The man of the oil-skin cape is reprimanded severely for this joke, and then resumes: "It is exactly the same scrape with this gentleman, if he will excuse the liberty I take in calling him so," he said, bowing to the Frenchman. "The fact is he remained so long admiring those eel pies that his soul expanded at the sight, and when he wanted to go he found he could not tear himself away: the Gutta Percha had become melted with the heat of the cook-shop, and strapped him to the pavement like a statue on a pedestal."

The mystery was as clear as if it had been strained with isinglass. The boots were investigated, and lo! the policeman's words for once were truth. Gutta Percha was at the bottom of each boot! The spell was solved, and so after a time were the soles. But let the reader scrutinize closely the pavement in the Strand; and on the left side, before he comes to Temple Bar, he will be able to pick out a flag-stone, opposite the "Royal Emporium for Eel Pies," which has on it the perfect imprint of the soles of a Blucher and a Wellington. It was on that very bit of granite where the poor Frenchman stood for nine hours, buffeted by the stream of people that kept flowing backwards and forwards, and tortured beyond any modern martyrdom by the tempting feast spread before him, which he could only devour with his hungry eyes.

Of all the new inventions there is not one which is likely to make a firmer stand, or keep its ground longer, than Gutta Percha.

The ladies are invading everything. The Stock Exchange, Capel Court, the field, the lecture-room, the betting-ring—places exclusively devoted hitherto to black coats and legs of the same colour—have been recently graced, or disgraced, as the case has been, with the presence the fair, and sometimes unfair, sex. The clubs, it is true, are still in the hands of men, and woman, though she has voice enough in laying down the law at home, has none as yet in Parliament; though we are confident if a handsome duchess, or Mrs. Nisbett, were only to put up for a county (say Bucks), that she would no sooner announce her intention of standing, than every Buck in the borough would rush forward to offer her a seat. Common politeness would carry her into the House of Commons. Government, however, is not the only floating and sinking thing that has a helm. Our yachts are open to the ladies; and, till they can steer the Vessel of State, they are at full liberty to soil their gants de Paris in handling the tiller of a Yacht. Are the quick-sands of office more dangerous to thread than the Needles? And what are the breezes, and the ups and downs of a parliamentary life, to those of the ocean? Go, ask Earl Grey, and he will tell you that he would sooner have fifty berths under Government than one in a royal yacht, any day!

The example set by the Queen every year has turned all the ladies mad for a Yacht. It is customary now, instead of packing up the drawing-room furniture whilst the family is out of town, to have it carried on board, where it is fitted up on deck, or does state duty in the cabins. The Turkey carpet covers the vulgar planks, the bell ropes are substituted for the coarse ropes; and chairs, richly inlaid with mother-of-pearl, replace the plain lockers. The whole household is transported generally as well, though apoplectic footmen sometimes desert after the first day, preferring board wages in May Fair to the best wages on board, in the Mediterranean.

The following extract from a Lady's Log Book will best illustrate this new fashion. It is written in the beautifully small handwriting of the enterprising Lady Augusta Fiddle-Faddle, who sailed in the Jenny Lind on a cruise to Paris, last October.

Sept. 2nd.—Started from Cowes. Sea just like a rocking-horse, up and down, up and down; not at all pleasant; very giddy; wind blowing all day at my back, nearly breaking my beautiful ostrich feather; no appetite for dinner; took an early tea, no muffins, not even a sally-lunn. Gave orders that the French cook (a promising pupil of Soyer's) might be told "to take good care it didn't occur again." In bed at eight, very unwell; ordered the rocking of the vessel to be stopped immediately, but not a soul paid any attention to my sufferings.

3rd.—No new milk for breakfast; told the butler to send for some directly; the impudent fellow sent word, "that there was no possibility of making Cowes so soon." Ordered his beer to be stopped. Dreadful noise overhead. Told Adolphus to inquire what it was. The intelligent lad brought me intelligence that it was the housemaid sweeping the carpets on deck. Went upstairs, and asked the reason why the deck was not ready before twelve o'clock. Told Jane and Maria Louisa that I would have the strictest discipline maintained in my Yacht, or else they had better suit themselves at once with other situations. Superintended the dusting of the ottomans, and reprimanded John Thomas for going up the dirty ropes without his Berlin gloves on. Detected a faint smell of tar, and ordered the carpet to be sprinkled with eau-de-Cologne, and feathers to be burnt in every room in the Yacht. Threw my glove over the railing of the vessel to see which way the wind blew; but on its going straight down and sinking very rapidly recollected that my purse was inside. A thorough draft arising at that moment blew off my fichu towards the right, and proved beyond a doubt that the wind was in a straight line to Brighton. Determined to go there, and told the coachman in charge of the Yacht to make as much haste as possible, as I wished to make a morning call on Lady Bandury Bunn, who was staying there, with all her little Bunns. It turned out, however, towards four o'clock, that we were not many hundred yards' distance from Havre; but as I had not a French bonnet with me I declined going on shore. In the evening, a ball, and I played a small concertina (I had brought with me to charm the dolphins), to enable the poor servants to dance. John Thomas and Jane Hussey went through a hornpipe as well as the uneven state of the Yacht would allow them. Served out tea and sugar at eight. Towards nine there was a very strong smell of tobacco; searched the Yacht, escorted by Adolphus, who carried two wax candles before me; we found the smell proceeded from the servants' hall. Descended the narrow staircase cautiously, and surprised, in the pantry, the butler, John Thomas, and the French cook, each smoking with the window open, what is called, I believe, a pipe. Ordered these offensive articles to be seized, and to be instantly thrown into the lowest depths of the sea; and did not retire to rest before my orders were strictly executed. Looked into the housekeeper's room, and gave directions for a muslin cover to be made for the gold Cupid that holds the compass; if I am correct in so terming the long darning-needle that is kept under a glass shade.

4th.—Wind very fair to-day. Curled my hair for the first time in ringlets. Inspected some Valenciennes lace I have bought, a perfect bargain, of a French smuggler; it will look well on a velvet dress. Told John to drive direct to Paris. The insolent fellow asked "if I would go by Brussels, or did I prefer Vienna?" Gave him instantly warning. He turned the vessel round with its head towards London. Told him that was not the road to Paris, when he said he "was going back to Southampton to suit himself with another place." Rang the bell, and told Grisetta to tell all the servants to come upstairs. The poor girl only speaking French, the stupid servants, who worry my life out, did not understand her. Directed my page Adolphus to summon the butler before me. Mr. Smithers appeared with his hat on; I asked him how he dared to appear in my presence with his head covered? His answer was, "that he had had two wigs blown off already, and he had caught a violent cold in his head." Asked him "What was his cold in the head when the discipline of the ship was at stake?" and he could not answer a word. Told him I should report him to Sir Valentine as soon as we landed in Grosvenor Square. Being determined to punish the coachman, ordered him to leave the box, and took the whip out of his hand in the presence of my maid and the German governess. The menial coloured, and to make his degradation the more striking, I pulled the cockade off his hat. I then took the what-d'ye-call-it, the long pole that pushes the vessel along, and attempted to guide it. The fatigue, however, was too much for my wrists, and I split my gloves in the exertion; was afraid, besides, of turning the vessel upside down, but disguised my fears before the dependents. Left the pole, and picked my way down to the servants' hall. Found the servants, male and female, at dinner, the butler in the chair, and Mrs. Bantam, the housekeeper, at the bottom. Apologized for intruding, for I thought it was best to be civil. Spoke kindly, and told them to serve me properly, and their rations of tea and sugar should be doubled. Mrs. Bantam thanked me. Then told them that "a great act of insubordination had been shown by the coachman above, and that I had been obliged to strip him"—(Here I paused to take note of the effect of my words; but no sympathy was, I am glad to say, evinced)—"of his situation." I reminded them of their duties, and conjured them to be faithful to their mistress, and they should not repent it when their wages were paid; but I told them plainly, if they coalesced with the coachman it should be as much as their situations were worth. If any one of them was displeased, and thought herself ill-used, or out of her proper element, she might leave the ship that instant, and I would be the last person to prevent her bettering herself. Not one amongst them took me at my word, and I was pleased more than I can express at their fidelity. I told them as much, and confessed I had anticipated a mutiny, but had made up my mind fully how to act in case the smallest soupçon of treachery had declared itself. "I would have opened the plugs at the bottom of the yacht," I said loudly to them, "and we should have all sunk together, after I had taken the precaution to write a letter to the Times, in which every one of your names would have been reported at full length, with your christian names and ages." I was going on in the most eloquent strain, when the most dreadful thumping occurred to the ship, and there was a noise overhead such as I had never heard before, even at one of Verdi's operas. I nearly fainted, for I thought a whale had run against us, and had burst in one of our panels; but a young footman, who had run upstairs and down again whilst I was losing my colour, assured me it was only the bowsprit (for so he called the long pole which protrudes from the front of the vessel) which had been shattered to pieces in consequence of its coming in collision with Southampton Pier, which happened at that moment to be in the way. I then recollected that I had left no one in charge of the Yacht, and hastened upstairs. I found a Custom-House officer coming up the rope ladder by the side, and gave the coachman into custody for having violated the laws of his country. The man searched him, and said, with the greatest nonchalance, that there was nothing about him that warranted his detaining him. He then asked me if I had anything to declare. "Anything to declare?" I said. "Yes, I declare that your conduct is the greatest piece of impertinence I have ever heard of;" and I went on in a great passion for a long time. The man got very angry, and I had a very good mind to have him thrown into the sea for his insolence; but I conquered my pride, for at that moment Prince FitzunStartz, the young Bohemian nobleman who first brought over the polka, came tripping on the yacht, and I was too glad, in order to escape, to take his arm, though he had just been smoking. I recounted to him the dangers I had gone through, and he would have it I was "quizzing" him, just as if I was likely to joke upon such a matter of life and death. We had scarcely reached the end of the pier when an officer stopped us, and informed me that the Jenny Lind was seized by the Custom House authorities for having on board a quantity of smuggled goods. Oh dear! oh dear! that Valenciennes will cost me dearer than what I might have got it for at Howell and James's, and they wouldn't have asked me for the money for six years to come at least; whereas I paid that smuggler every bit in sovereigns. Oh! that stupid Yacht!