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

Moveable Feasts.—The greatest one on record is the Barmecide Feast of Sancho Panza.

Fast-Days.—Greenwich Fair at Easter and Whitsuntide, the Derby, the Thames Regatta, balloon days at Cremorne, and masquerade mornings at Jullien's.

Michaelmas Day.—Election of the Lord Mayor—Moses takes his measure, and rushes home to cut up the goose.

Leap Year.—It takes three springs to make one leap year.

Purification.—It is very curious that the very day after Candlemas should be the anniversary of a "Blaize."

Holiday at Chance. Offices.—The English of Chance. is Chancery.

Low Sunday.—Boating on the Thames, or riding in the Park on a hired horse.

Old May Day.—An exiled Pole in England.

Lent.—To ascertain its beginning and end, you have only to become security for a friend at a Loan Office.

Bartholomew.—One of the reduced fairs.

Christmas.—The Earl of A-db-r-gh presents all his servants with Christmas Boxes—of Holloway's pills.

Old Lady-Day.—The only lady whose age is known to a day.

FASHIONS FOR 1849.

The rage for flounces in ladies' dresses will grow deeper and deeper. Two noble Duchesses will compete as to the greater number. They will continue each time bidding one flounce over one another, till their dresses will be nothing but flounces. The fashion is evidently borrowed from the hackney-coachman's cape.

Gentlemen's fashions will remain just the same, that is to say, as ugly as ever.

A RAILWAY TRIP IN THE AUTUMN OF 1848 IN
SEARCH OF THE PICTURESQUE.

It is not so easy to find the New Waterloo Terminus of the South-Western Railway, but, by dint of innumerable halfpence to innumerable little boys, and chartering several policemen, we found it at last. It is a good day's walk from Waterloo Bridge—that is to say, if you cross the river in the morning, you may reach it before the evening; even then you will require to have a guide, or else you will infallibly pass it without ever suspecting that tremendous high wall, with a lamp-post growing out of the top, is

The architecture of the terminus partakes very largely of the impromptu Band-box Order. The offices must have been designed by the architect who ran up in one day the House of Commons Committee Rooms. You imagine innumerable floors must have been torn up, for all the works published at this office are bound in strong boards. However, they look very light and airy, though hardly adapted, we should say, to stand against a strong wind. It would be a curious sight to see, some day next March, a covey of railway offices winging their way down the Strand in the direction of Birdcage Walk.

But the railway is whistling to us. Suppose we take a four-penny trip down the line to view the

SPLENDID SCENERY FROM WATERLOO
BRIDGE TO NINE-ELMS.

We believe there is nothing like it in the world, excepting the Blackwall line.

We will jot down right and left the principal beauties that most enchant us on this picturesque little railway, which is certainly the most laconic line that was ever sent through the electric post by one company to another.

We are sitting with our backs (though, by-the-bye, we have but one back) to the New Cut; the fertile district of Lambeth is on one side, the milky river on the other.

We were quite taken aback with the immense forest of chimneys which the engine cuts through like so much brush wood; they seem to be the only vegetation of the place. It is easy to distinguish the chimneys that have been recently stacked from those of previous years' crops. A curious windmill, supposed to have attained the age of three hundred and twenty, meets the left eye. It is quite the Methuselah of windmills. Cockney artists come from far and near to ask it to give them a sitting.

Your right eye will not fail to light up with the group of merry pipers that are sitting on the roof of the "Duke of Wellington." Their bright tankards sparkle in the sun, with which they moisten their respective clays. They present a pleasing picture of the happy peasantry of the suburbs. One laughing fellow presents his tankard to us, but we are obliged to refuse it, from the reason that the railway will not stop to allow us to take it.

An immense volume of smoke from a supposed brewery, though the perfume from the brewery is not particularly hoppy, is at the present moment delivered to the public in numbers. The passenger, if he is wise, will shut his eyes, and not open them again till he sees that it has quite blown over.

A magpie in a wicker cage, suspended from an attic window, is worth the passing sympathy of the third-class passenger. The first-class ditto can have no sympathy, from the obvious fact that he cannot see anything (Mem. To enjoy nature, there is nothing like the third-class; to enjoy a good snooze, there is nothing like the first.) We do not envy that poor magpie, with the engine rushing by him all day long. See how he crouches into the corner of his prison! And hark! he has learnt the railway whistle. Wretched bird! thou canst not have a pleasant life of it. How willingly, methinks, thou wouldst hop the twig, if thou couldst!

But what is that? It looks like a large game of scratch-cradle—but no, it isn't—it is merely the top of a gas factory. We wonder if they take off the lids of those immense black cauldrons, when they want to see how the pot boils?

Behold how contentedly that man is smoking his pipe, with his bare arms resting on the parapet of the railway, as if it were a cushion. The train rushes screaming by him, but not an eye winks, not a nerve shakes. The pipe still hangs from the lips of that iron man—well adapted to live so close and be, a railway sleeper. By-the-bye, it cannot be pleasant to have an engine almost touching your bedroom window whilst you are shaving!

Look to your right, you will see the Houses of Parliament, the Barrycade of Westminster that has now been up for six years, and likely to remain up for thirty more. The bird you see on the top is a crane. It is sacred hereabouts, and is highway robbery if any one attempts to dislodge it.

The Thames is worth looking at; but you must be quick, for unless you look down that narrow street before the train passes it, you will not see it. The silver speck—like a half-crown—you see at the end of that lane is the Thames.

Turn quick to the left; you will perceive what an Englishman most delights in—a fight.

Bah! you're too late; the Policeman has emerged from some invisible spot, and the fight is adjourned. One man in blue disperses five hundred Britons.

You will see plenty of English Interiors on each side of the country. They display all varieties of paper, mostly at a halfpenny a yard. How desolate the fireplaces look, and yet they are interesting, as the last abiding-places of the grate must always be.

How ferocious those chimneys look!—they give you quite a turn. Hurrah! now we approach Vauxhall! At night you can see the fireworks for nothing. Sometimes they drop in also upon you. A Roman wheel occasionally visits the first-class carriage, when he proves a very troublesome visitor, and which no one likes to turn out. The sticks—the departed ghosts of the short-lived rockets—think nothing of falling down upon the third-class passengers. But in the day-time you have nothing of these entertainments. All you see is the shell of the pagoda peeping through the trees, or an artist busy in veneering ham for the sandwiches; or you may get a small view of the airy abode of Il Diavolo, who led such a wire-drawn existence.

Holla! there's a cab coming over Vauxhall Bridge, and a steamer going underneath it. The horse still carries it over steam occasionally.

Now, you have reached the Vauxhall terminus. But which is the way out? There, down that trap. Why, it looks like the cabin of a steamer; but it isn't. Venture down it—it only takes you into the cellar, for the passengers at this station are shot out through a dry arch. But this species of exit—underhand as it is—is not half so perplexing as the one at Waterloo Bridge—as they will persist in calling the terminus—though never were Directors so far out in their calculations. Here, as you rush in a hurry to discover the exit, you are stopped by the following directions:—

Well, how have you enjoyed your trip? Only consider the variegated landscape, the picturesque scenery, the wonderful insight into the domestic habits of the natives, which you have just enjoyed in your delightful little trip of three minutes' rapid flight over roof and chimneys, from Waterloo Bridge to Nine Elms. If you are a real lover of nature, you will never forget it as long as you live.

An Asylum for Stranded Passengers.—The Lowther Arcade has been called the Gents' Umbrella. Might it not also be called the Ladies' Parasol?

A Little Difference between Them.

Bagman (with his bill). "I say, waiter, haven't you charged me as a gentleman?"

Waiter. "Oh! no,—as a commercial traveller, sir."

To Describe a Circle Round a Given Point.—Get into a cab, and order the driver to take you to the Bank of England.

How to See Jenny Lind's Portrait.—Visit an affected mother; let the subject of your conversation be the Opera, and she is sure to introduce one of her daughters who is universally acknowledged to be the "exact picture of Jenny Lind."

Extract from an interesting Letter from Lady Amelia (the lovely Daughter of the venerable Earl of Oldbuffough) to her Cousin, Lady Araminta Lamb.

"My Dearest, Dearest, Dearest, ever Fondest Araminta,—On my arrival here I was so sorry to learn that my darling doll had been thrown out of the carriage, and sadly hurt by the fall; but I must tell you, first of all, she had been terribly upset by the shaking of the steam-vessel, for she tumbled out of her berth, and it was a thousand mercies she was not smashed into a thousand pieces. As it was, the shock was too much for her delicate nerves, and she was laid up for a month in a drawer. Her beautiful ringlets (auburn, you will recollect) all fell off. Her lovely complexion had completely gone from dropping into the sea, and her pretty eyelids, once so quick, would neither open nor shut, though I tried pins and everything I could think of to make her open them. Oh, Araminta darling, believe me when I assure you I was tossed about so madly that I was completely bouleversé.

"I was quite distracted with the fearful change. I called in the assistance of the most experienced Italian doll-makers, but their remedies were unavailing. My little pet gradually got worse, when mamma's French maid, Smith, persuaded me to apply to my sister's toilet-table for restoratives. After several applications of Macassar Oil to her bald head, I cannot tell you how delighted I was to perceive the hair beginning to grow again. I jumped for joy. I was quite a little mad thing for the space of ten minutes! But I persevered, and now (thanks be to that sweet Rowland) her ringlets are just as beautiful as ever, with this slight difference, that they are now jet black instead of the light auburn they formerly were. The little dear looks all the better for the change of hair. Still its complexion was so very bad, I did not like to take her out with me into society at all. Smith again, like a good creature, recommended me to try some of Rowland's Kalydor. I did. I washed the darling's face with it every morning for a week, and you will scarcely believe it, but it is no story, when I assure you that my doll has quite resumed her pristine bloom, and is now as pure and as lovely as ever. But her eyes pained me the most, so I made bold to ask Sir John Sheepshanks, who never travels without Holloway's Ointment, to oblige me with a little bit. He gave me as much as would cover your tongue, and, before putting her to bed, I placed it over her eyelids, and the next morning gave her a good pinch of Grimstone's Eye Snuff, when, upon pulling the strings, will you credit me on my word, my dearest Araminta, when I inform you that her eyelids opened and shut just as well as when my dear papa gave me the beautiful doll on my birthday. I was going to give her a small box (price 11s.) of Parr's Life Pills, but Smith assured me she would probably come alive, and I was frightened, as we have no nurserymaid here to attend to her. My doll is now quite a new creature, and I should advise you, Minta dearest, to try the same remedies, if ever you find yours looking faint, or losing her colour, or growing old.

"I forgot to tell you, that my sweet pet also lost her voice from catching cold rather late one night at the Opera. I gave her half a dozen of Stolberg's Voice Lozenges, and now she says 'Pa' and 'Ma' more distinctly than ever. You recollect, too, her voice was a deep baritone. It has changed to the most beautiful falsetto! Isn't it wonderful?"

HOW STARS ARE DISCOVERED.

Mons. Arago says:—"Talking of the new fashion of discovering stars:—there's my friend Millevoye, who wrote to me post-haste one morning to say, he had just discovered two new stars! Now, one star is enough at any time, but two were so surprising in my eyes, that I rushed to him immediately to see if there was anything in them. 'Come, my dear Millevoye,' I said, 'can you look me in the face and say you have discovered two new stars?' 'I can,' he said boldly, and he turned his eyes full upon mine. The absurdity of the thing flashed so ridiculously upon me that I could not help laughing—the double discovery was at once apparent—for the poor fellow squinted. Take my word, never believe in a new star till you have seen it yourself."

ASTLEY'S HISTORICAL QUESTIONS.

Many of us owe to a visit to Astley's our earliest initiation into the mysteries of histories; and we are of opinion that a set of questions should be framed in accordance with these grand dog-mata—or horse-mata, as a maliciously-disposed person might call them—which we have gleaned from the boards of that great equestrian establishment. The arena of the circus is not a mere desert of sand or sawdust to him who looks at it with an intelligent eye, for many a wise saw may be picked up from the aforesaid sawdust, if the eye itself does not disdain the humility of the pupil. We subjoin a few specimens of the sort of questions and answers that would be found to meet the case, if we looked at history through some of Astley's grand spectacles.

Q. How was the battle of Waterloo decided?

A. By six Scotch Greys popping out from under two trusses of straw beautifully divided into six, and representing about half a pint of "standing corn," from which the gallant fellows emerged in time to "discomfit" eight French cuirassiers, who retired before the battery of the flats of the enemy's swords upon their highly polished breast-plates.

Q. How did Napoleon succeed in crossing the Alps?

A. He was carried across in an open boat on the backs of four supernumeraries.

Q. In what manner did the Emperor travel to Russia?

A. In a pasteboard hackney-coach, gorgeously emblazoned with Dutch metal, and which had been discovered among the rich relics of barbarism used for the old melodrama of Xaia of China.

Q. How did the Duke of Wellington behave at Waterloo?

A. He never spoke a single word, but pranced about, looking unutterable things, on a piebald charger.

Q. To what are our successes in India attributable?

A. To Lady Sale having surmounted an extensive range of platforms on a highly trained steed, and called upon "the whole strength of the company, with a numerous train of auxiliaries," to "advance for the honour of Old England," while the band in the orchestra played "Rule Britannia."

Q. Mention some prominent points connected with the burning of Moscow?

A. There were several terrific bangs, which had the effect of throwing a red glare over the whole scene; and several of the public buildings fell like the flap of a dining-table, showing underneath a very ruinous state of things; while the inhabitants appeared to be indulging themselves in letting off squibs and crackers into the air for the purpose of heightening the horrors of the conflagration.

Q. What became of Napoleon's trusty Mameluke?

A. On the last occasion that he took a part in public affairs he was recognised as a baker who had been just pillaged and pummelled by the clown in a pantomime.

Q. State some of the most striking peculiarities of the late Emperor Napoleon?

A. He chiefly depended for his advice on the "ferry-man" of his army; he took immense quantities of "property" snuff from a "practicable" snuff-box; he granted long interviews to "females in distress," and finished every alternate speech he made by declaring himself "the son of destinie."

APOLLO ARRESTED BY A WRIT.

It was said of a certain officer of a certain sheriff, "nihil tetigit quod non ornavit," which means that it was really an honour to receive a tap on the shoulder at his hands, and we have no doubt that even a writ would have acquired from his peculiar touch a grace and a dignity. We know there is nothing that may not be elevated by poetry, and we have endeavoured therefore to force the Muses into the service of a writ for the purpose of investing it with a new charm, and giving it what it ought to possess—a taking character, in place of the old prosaic form, which is repulsive rather than attractive, and instead of enabling every one who runs to read, causes every one who reads to run. We would throw it into verse, and, by giving it poetical feet, place it on quite a new footing:—

CONSCIENCE MONEY.

"A FAST man, who acknowledges having read the 'Comic Almanack' of last year through the shop-windows, and is ashamed now of the petty meanness, begs to forward to the Editor, as conscience money, the sum of One Shilling. The halves of six blue postage-stamps are now enclosed, and the remaining halves will be forwarded as soon as the first are acknowledged."

[The above have been duly handed over to Mr. Bogue, who has generously paid the amount into the Poor-box for the Relief of Distressed Jokers—a most deserving charity.—Ed. C. A.]

Advertisers seem to imagine that a gentleman's pocket is as capacious as a kangaroo's—everything is for the pocket. We subjoin a few that will go to the bosom of every gentleman, especially those who have carried them—as the pressure of so many articles must have been rather inconvenient, if carried in the waistcoat pocket.

to say nothing of innumerable Pocket-Books and Pocket Pistols, the latter of which, we think, a gentleman had better be without. To contain all the above articles, a gentleman's pocket need be as large, and packed as close, as a pocket of hops. We shall be having Houses for the Pocket next! and, who knows, a Pocket Railway?

THE GAME OF FRIGHT.

This round game has been played very extensively in France and other countries this year. In some circles the king has been thrown out and all the honours put aside, which has increased the fright to a very great extent, as it was always doubtful what low card would be the next turn up. Hitherto the clubs have been uppermost, and the knaves have shared all the spoil; but people are just beginning to see through the game, and are calling for a fresh pack; so we hope there will soon be an end to fright.

The Great Desert is only solitary confinement applied to travelling.

If you wish to know yourself, travel by yourself; and, egad! you will never wish to renew the intimacy.

I can't make out the Sphinx; but I suppose it must have been the first likeness taken in stone. If the Egyptians could not make better riddles than that, they were perfectly right in never trying their hands upon another.

They say this place is very romantic; but, on my word, I cannot see it, and I have looked everywhere. If there be a romance, it can only be a flying volume of Sand. I recollect my eyes filling several times, and certainly I cried once till I was nearly blinded; but on the whole I prefer the Waverly Novels.

If the Pyramids had been in Paris, they would have been broken long ago for barricades.

We are strange creatures; we leave London because it is empty, and come to the Great Desert for a change; for myself, I like London best; there may not be a soul, but you can get a sherry-cobbler, and there is the waiter at all events to speak to.

What is Society? Running away from one's self; but here you only run to meet yourself. You might as well turn hermit, or toll-man on Southwark Bridge.

I have met with but one sign of civilization since I have been here, and that was an empty soda-water bottle off Cairo!

I cannot see the fun of climbing up that Great Pyramid. It is immense labour, and, like an election, is attended with bribery and corruption at every step, for you have to pay those greedy Moors before they will give you a hand, or the smallest lift.

I could not help shouting out, as I saw a big fat alderman-looking fellow going up, "Twopence, Moor, and up goes the donkey!" It was very vulgar, but I could not help it.

It is time that those forty centuries were relieved. I know of but one man to do it, and that's Widdicombe.

I am certain solitude begets contempt. If I were to stop here another day I should positively hate myself.

I had the bump of travelling, but have quite lost it now, after travelling for a week on a camel.

Stupid people express their astonishment at the quantity of stones collected by the Egyptians to build the Pyramids, and never bestow the smallest wonder at the immense collection of dust; and yet the one is just as wonderful as the other, and, I am sure, much more difficult to get over.

Decidedly travelling in the plains of Egypt will never be comfortable till they introduce watering-carts.

If you wish to ascertain how slowly the sand of human life trickles through the minute glass, go to the Great Desert. But I suppose "what must be, must;" in other words, as the Duke of Bedford would say, "Che Sahara, Sahara." But the proverb is rather musty.

I wonder they do not lay down a railway here. No elevations required, no tunnels excepting through the Needles, and Obelisks, and Tombs; everything is as smooth as a billiard-table; it looks as if it had been laid down on purpose, ready ruled for a series of lines. One thing, however, is very plain, and that is, they do not catch me in the Great Desert again until there is a railway!

Cheapside at four o'clock, Gower Street on a Sunday, the Ancient Concerts, a Jury-box in the dog-days, a pantomime in July, a Blue-book on a wet Sunday—anything, confound it! is better than this Great Desert. On my word, I never saw, since I have travelled, a place with so little in it.

"Here, Bou Maza, bring my camel to the door. I'm off to London."

Unpublished Dogma of Doctor Johnson.—"The man who wears a moustache has no right to eat vermicelli soup."

A woman who says "my love," and "my dear," and "my pet sweet," to her husband in public, and pulls his hair, probably, in private.

A young man who is studying statistics, and tells you "the number of quarters of bonded corn there were in Hamburgh in 1835 was 10,000 more than any other year," and quotes voluminously about refined tallows and prime Muscovados from

A woman of great intellect, and a young lady at supper who wishes to go into a convent.

A man who is perpetually boasting of his "favourite old port that has been these fifteen years in bottle," and gives you nothing but British brandy.

A woman of fifty years of age who dresses like a girl of nineteen.

A woman who drops her pocket-handkerchief every five minutes at an evening party, in order to test the gallantry of the gentlemen.

A man who gives a dinner party, and keeps saying to his guests, "You see your dinner, gentlemen."

A woman who is always talking about her "delicate constitution."

An old maid who doubts, during dessert, "if you could love madly," and then asks, "What is your beau ideal of the tender passion?"

A young man who quotes Latin at a social party, and proposes healths and toasts; or a German at the Opera who hums all the tunes, overture, and recitatives, stamps his feet, and takes snuff.

A faded coxcomb who talks of his successes with "the dear creatures."

An old fellow who is always recollecting a "capital thing he heard five-and-twenty years ago."

An old play-goer who will insist "we haven't a single actor left," and then tells you, "You should have seen Dicky Suett."

"A man who has seen better days," and will recollect the time he had "thirteen different sorts of wine on his table, and kept his mare and French cook, but no one cares that for him now"—the that being a snap of the fingers.