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that is inattentive and abstracted strikes everything he meets, not even excepting the noses of the passers-by. He that is merry and humorous holds his cane by the middle, and continually taps with it the palm of his other hand.' The simpleton twirls it round like a windmill or a turnstile. The old bachelor invariably carries his cane under his arm, or suspends it by the tassel to his coat-button, or holds it in both his hands behind him, carrying it as it were a pick-a-back, and, perhaps, sometimes regretting his celibacy, and wishing it were a roystering cherub. Talking of cherubs, a cane, after all, never pleases us so well.

THE GLOVES.

The vulgar man only wears gloves upon very important occasions; therefore he knows not how to glove himself: this is proved by his generally splitting them from impatiently thrusting in the thumb before it is wanted—by his choosing gloves which are always either too large or too small, that never harmonise in colour with his dress, and that are generally sewn with staring white stitches. When he gets them on, he knows not what to do with his hands; consequently, he more frequently carries them crumpled up in a lump, or stows them away in his pockets.

He who wears gloves, out at the fingers,—or rather, who wears his fingers out of his gloves, either wants a sweetheart, or else has a wife that prefers strumming the piano, or reading Bulwer's novels, to domestic repairs.

He that wears white cotton gloves at theatre, concert, or ball, should wear a night-cap of the same colour and material ;-'t would not be less in character.

The real gentleman chooses his gloves with taste, and wears them with grace and ease. The fop sports his kids so tight that he cannot close his hands : hence he is compelled to carry his cane between his open stretched-out digits, after the fashion in which Punch holds his baton.

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They 'll take him to arsenals, show him reviews,
And cause him to shake, if there 's room, in his shoes.
To Woolwich by railroad they 'll probably run him,
And, when he gets there, with artillery stun him.
Thro' the Tunnel they'll drag him, and fill him with wonder
When he can't understand how the Thames he stands under.
And when he returns to his country again,
How much to his Emperor will he explain.
He 'll say that the tea in Great Britain to grow,
At least on the hedges, is wond'rously slow.
That the English are such a barbarian race,
Their method of eating is quite a disgrace ;
For instead of the chopsticks, they take not a meal,
Without having recourse to sharp weapons of steel.
The envoy, of course, will correctly note down
What he sees, or is told, in the country or town;
And when he has filled his recorder diurnal,
Get Murray or Longman to publish his journal.

THE BRISTOL HOAX.

The victim in this odd affair,

Deserved his title fully ; For one so soft could surely wear

No better name than Woolley.

SINGING FOR THE MILLION.

'T will be a most harmonious state of things
When every one, instead of speaking, sings.
A dun will give a musical rat tat,

And at his charges should the debtor carp,
The latter in refusing will be flat,

The former in demanding will be sharp.
The lawyer, though with music in his breast,

May leave his client to a prison's fate,
Where he may find, at least, a few bars' rest

Unless he pays his bill in time, six eight.
Music already many comprehend,

To them its terms are practically known:
Andante, when they act to serve a friend ;

Allegro, when the profit is their own.
The singing for the million must, indeed,

Be in accordance with the Chartist's choice ;
For if the proposition should succeed,

All in the country then would have a voice.

THE CHINESE AMBASSADOR

Oh, how they'll invite him and fête him about !
He'll be of next season the lion no doubt.
He'll shine at their routs ; of each fancy bazaar,
The envoy celestial must be the star.
'Tis said, that already the publishers look
To the chance of the China-man writing a book ;
And a bibliopole, who in spirit ne'er fails,
Has opened a treaty for some of his tails.
His portrait they 'll draw with astonishing zeal
On brass and on copper, as well as on steel.
His features they 'll put upon wood and on stone,
Till he fancies (poor fellow) his head 's not his own.

Miss Bryers, if she laid the plan

Her means to be increasing, Could not have found a better man,

To judge by names for fleecing.

The timber merchant sure must be

Particularly stupid ; To think that his cupidity

Would gain its ends by Cupid.

THE FUNNY GENTLEMAN.

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“I've been thinking, Mogg," said a Camberwell matron, " how we shall make up our party for next Wednesday. I can't think of sitting down to dinner with thirteen.” “Let me see," replied Mr. Mogg.

“ La, ma," cried Miss Jemima Mogg, a young lady whose age had just begun to be expressible by two figures, “ do ask the Funny Gentleman."

“ The Funny Gentleman, dear ?"

Yes, ma, him that Mr. Perkins brought with him the other evening, the one you know that told us the story about Hokey Pokey Wonkey Fum, and did the little crow and the big crow, and conjured Tom's pop-gun into the coal-scuttle."

“Oh! do have him, ma,” screamed all the little Moggs, “ and let us all come in after dinner. Fol de rol de rol de rol de ray! What fun we shall have! Do have him, ma; do, do."

“What, that disagreeable person that calls himself Poague ?” exclaimed Miss Matilda Mogg, a sentimental damsel of nineteen. I can't bear him."

“There you are, Tildy," expostulated Master Tom, the proprietor of the enchanted pop-gun; “ you never like a bit of fun, you don't-I'm glad Mima and Jane an't like you. What's the use of always a-sighing, and looking as if you were going to be ill ?”

“He laughed," pursued Matilda, not deigning to notice her brother's interruption, “at what I said about Byron and Shelley, and the pretty things in the annuals, and all that; and then he made a face, and tried to sing 'Fare thee well, and if for ever,' to that nasty tune that Tom brought home with himn the other day, about getting up stairs and playing on the fiddle."

“Well, dear," said Mrs. Mogg," he only did it in joke, and

amuse Tom and the doctor." “I don't approve of such jokes, ma; and I hate people that are always laughing. Besides, when Eugene and I were talking about moonlight, and how beautiful all that was in Childe Harold, where it says, “To gaze on Dian's

wave-reflected sphere,' he interrupted us, and told an absurd story of some silly people in Wiltshire who tried to rake the moon out of a pond."

“Well, never mind for once, dear,” said Mrs. Mogg; " we must have somebody, and Mr. Poague really is very amusing. Eugene and you can sit together if you like, so as to be out of his way. So, Mogg, when you see Perkins to-day in the city, ask him to bring his friend."

It was thus settled that Mr. Poague should make one of the family party on the ensuing Wednesday at Pomona Cottage.

Wednesday came; the guests were assembled, all except Mr. Perkins and his facetious friend. The clock struck five" Gentlemen,” cried Mr. Mogg, “punctuality is the soul of business. I wait for nobody. Dawson, will you take care of Mrs. Mogg, and lead the way ?”

Walk up, reader, and behold the Surrey carnivora feeding. All present (except Eugene and Miss Matilda, whose appetites are not good), being of opinion that all that one has to do at a dinner party is to dine, are eating—not noiselessly-but in silence. A double knock and a ring at the door are heard—voices—a loud laugh, and a scuffling

“That's them," exclaims Mrs. Mogg. “ Miow! miow! whirr, -irr, -irr, -irr - Puss, puss, puss,' cries one of the voices outside; and a laugh yet louder

The door opens-—"Mr. Perkins and Mr. Pope," shouts the footman with the usual emphasis on the last name, and enter the friend of the family and his companion. “ Glad to see you, gents,” says Mr. Mogg; “sit ye down, sit

ye

down. But what made you so late, Perkins ? this is something quite out of the common,

eh?” “Why, the fact is, that

“ Well, there never mind; here you are at last; so sit down and peg away."

“ Better late than never, sir,” observes the Funny Gentleman. “Mrs. Mogg, your most obedient — Thank ye, ma'am” (to a lady who has moved for him)" that 'll do, and not a very tight fit either - plenty of elbow-room, as the

in the passage.

ensues.

yours, miss

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Irishman said of the Dutch pair of breeches. What weather! It rains cats and dogs, and the kennels are as full as they can hold. Any port in a storm, especially such a one as this-snug as a bug in a rug, or a doe and her family in a rabbit-hutch. Came up from Brumagem this morning with a cloak and carpet bag - got wet through stepping from the station into a cab. All the piccaninnies quite well, Mrs. Mogg? glad to hear it — Thank you, sir, a wing, if you please — nothing like flying when you want to make up for lost time. I'll take a little of each -- smallest donations thankfully received.” (Here the Funny Gentleman's plate goes the round of the table.) “A slice of tongue — much obliged — the stomach's the best place for a silent one ; plenty of tongue— that's the way to get through the world

a little cheek too's not amiss, 'specially when it don't blush, Miss Matilda a glass of wine did n't see you at first — quite out of sight in the corner comfortable berth, though, seemingly, I wish I was in somebody's place; you are rather dull though, both of you. 'Laugh, and grow fat,' that's my maxim." And then Mr. Poague muttered something about a screw being loose, and looked particularly knowing, thereby giving considerable amusement to all but the two persons for whose benefit his remark was intended.

Mr. Poague was a middle-aged middle-sized personage, of lightish hair, and very blue twinkling eyes, with “crow's feet” at their angles. He had a Roman nose, a little on one side; a very wide mouth, and a reddish brown complexion. His face looked as if it had once been seamed with the small-pox, but had been smoothed a little with a pumice-stone.

“Mr. Poague, may I trouble you for a few greens ?” asks one of the party.

“ You may, sir, but you won't; no trouble at all, I assure you.

Nice things are greens; apt to be done brown though sometimes—see any in my eye, sir ?” (to a gentleman staring at him)—"you 'll have to get up pretty early to do that, I

you.
Thank

you,

Mrs. M. ; not a morsel more.”

“Mr. Poague, you've made a very poor dinner,” says the lady of the mansion.

“Very poor, indeed, ma'am — over the left. Up to here, I assure you; chuck full! - played a stick like an emperor!" Probably Mr. Poague alluded to Heliogabalus; if so, he was perfectly right.

“Poague, I'm glad to see you," cries Mr. Mogg; the

more cumbrous viands having given place to fruit, wine, and biscuits.

"Sir, you do me proud. Delighted to find my legs under your mahogany."

“ You've just come from the Birmingham Railway, I think, sir ?" inquires the hostess.

“ Yes, ma'am, flew along like a shot out of a shovel – whish, -ish, -ish ---- came to a hill, ont popped another engine and pushed behind ; roared like a wild beast at the Surrey Zoological steam let off when we came to the station, pharr, -arr, -arr, -arr, -arr, - stepped out all right and tight,- no bother about tipping - met Perkins; and here I am at last, rather more comfortable, I fancy, than a toad under a harrow,— your health, ma'am.”

“Had you a pleasant journey, sir?”

“Tol lol, ma'am. Could n't stop to bait, that was the worst. However, I always carry a pocket-pistol in case of accidents. Here it is,-look! Like to let it off, ladies ? Miss Matilda, you seem rather out of spirits; suppose you have a shot; remember the ‘Landlady of France.''

“I have no recollection, sir, of any such person; and I should faint at the smell of spirits.”

A lady inquires whether Mr. Poague prefers the old mode of conveyance to the new.

“Nothing like a stage-coach, after all, ma'am ; ya hip! 'st, 'st, 'st. Tra tara tara ta ta !— All right, and off we go that's the ticket for my money

- beats cock-fighting hollow, eh, Miss Matilda ?

Cock-fighting is a very cruel amusement, sir; I don't admire it at all, nor yet those who indulge in it!”

“Oh! certainly, miss, certainly. Fine fun though — cluck, cluck, cluck; cock-a-doodle doo." And he pantomimically illustrated the action of chanticleer militant to the great peril of the glasses and decanters near him on the table, and also of his next neighbour's shins.

In the midst of this display of mimicry, the children are announced. They are infinitely amused; and, to heighten their mirth, the Funny Gentleman contorts his visage, rolls his eyes, and grins like a corbel from a ruined abbey.

little chick-a-biddies, what do you think of this ?" And now follows a tune on his chin, after the manner of the celebrated quondam performer at Vauxhall. Immense is the gratification of the infants Mogg.

" I say, Mr. Poague," bawls Master Tom,“ please tell us a funny story."

can tell

Aha! my

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lips, mysteriously gabbling the magic formula, “crinkum bovis domine Jovis, hi coculorum jig.” He then threw his visage, and thereby the spectators, into convulsions-gave a twirl with his hands, and—lo! nothing remained in them but the paper; the tumbler had disappeared, and the Funny Gentleman was crunching, apparently with great relish, the fragments of glass between his teeth. Another contortion of the countenance, another flourish of the hands, and the tumbler was again exhibited—to all appearance none the worse for the experiment.

With these, and the like facetiæ, did Mr. Poague amuse the inmates and visiters of Pomona Cottage. At the conclusion of the evening he sang a comic song, with a chorus of "bow, wow, wow," which was unanimously encored ; whereupon he sang another, more comic than the firstand just as the clock struck twelve, having then finished his third tumbler of brandy and water, he abruptly took his leave, averring that he was a man of regular habits, and made a point of never staying out later than midnight.

Long did the little Misses and Masters Mogg remember

Funny story! my young calimanco? Come, then Did you ever hear of the Marsh Mockasan, the big snake of North America, that eats a couple of live oxen and half a dozen little boys every morning for breakfast, and thinks nothing of it?"

“No ; do tell us about him."

“Well, then, let me see no, I'll tell you about him some other time. I know something you 'll like — you shall hear all about the Sexton of Saragossa."

“Please, sir, whereabouts is Saragossa ?"

“In Ballinamara Boo, my little dear. Well, this sexton went into the churchyard one day to dig a grave for an old miser, that had starved himself to death in a coal-cellar.” Here Mr. Poague groaned shudderingly, and the flesh of his young audience crept.

“Oh, go on sir, please go on.”

“Well, then, the sexton began digging the grave, and he dug, and dug, and dug, and, first, he threw up a thighbone, and then a scull, and then he came to an old coffin. So he began scraping away the dirt to see whose it was, and while he was doing that, something inside bumped against the lid, -and he heard a voice say—"

“Oh, gracious !" interrupted the children. "Hubbaboo diddledy doo, whiskey giddledy wobbledy baw'that 's Latin, my little dears. 'Hallo!' says he, who's there ?' 'Put in your pickaxe, and you 'll see,' cries the voice inside. So he just put in the end of his pickaxe,something gave it a tug-and when he pulled it out”—(the Funny Gentleman paused for a moment, with a look most supernaturally owlish, which was reflected by the sympathetic little ones)—“the end of it-an inch and a half-was gone : it had been bitten off like a carrot !” The children all screamed—the grown-up people laughed; but Matilda remarked to Eugene, that it was a shame to frighten poor little children by telling them such stories.

Mr. Poague, after this to the further beatification of the chubby cherubim), gave a faithful and interesting imitation of the thrush, the skylark, the nightingale, and the parrots at the Zoological Gardens. And then he exhibited a piece of legerdemain.

Taking a large glass tumbler from the table, he wrapped it round with a piece of brown paper, and raised it to his

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