C. H. W. · Section 2

C. H. W.

MRS. TODDLES.

Even the most agreeable offices and employments of life are sometimes accompanied by melancholy misadventures; and the pleasure which we enjoy from month to month in the good-humoured reader's company, is now subject to a very serious drawback; for a painful duty is imperatively imposed upon us. We have to express our deep and poignant regret at being the medium, innocently and unconsciously, of wounding the susceptible feelings of a lady. We have hurt the feelings of Mrs. Toddles, by publishing some particulars of her life. It is true, we did not consider them to be in the slightest degree calculated to produce such an effect, nor did we vouch for their accuracy: no matter; her feelings are hurt, her sensibilities are shocked; and that deeply-injured lady is entitled to, and is hereby offered, the expression of our most sincere and heartfelt regret.

Thus far in deference and delicacy to Mrs. Toddles. We must now proceed to state that we have received a letter from Col. Walker, or Talker, as he appears to sign himself, in which he remonstrates with us for publishing some professed particulars of the life of Mrs. Toddles, demands satisfaction and atonement on her part, and declares that even while his letter was being written, that injured lady was in violent hysterics. We conclude from the tone of the gallant Colonel's complaints, that the public mention of Mrs. T.'s "age" has given offence; and our correspondent is pronounced to be totally misinformed on that as on other points. We grant this to be possible; we did not vouch for the accuracy of Mr. Sly's statement, and are of opinion that no gentleman can know a lady's age so well as she knows it herself. Our maxim is, that every lady has a right to be, at all periods of her life, exactly what age she pleases--thirty odd at sixty-two if she likes. We also admit that every lady has a right to go into hysterics as often as she sees occasion; but because Mrs. T. chooses to exercise these sacred privileges of her sex, we do not recognise Col. Talker's right to threaten us with "law," or to attempt to frighten us with notices of "action." We are not to be intimidated there; we have too many lawyers among our acquaintances, and very pleasant fellows they are too.

[Illustration: COL. WALKER, as he was seen when going to fetch the Peppermint.]

But, after all, we cannot conceive that there is any very great harm done; for we are perfectly well aware, whatever Col. Talker may say, that Mrs. T.'s "fit" was not of a nature to show that her sensibilities had been _very_ seriously shocked, and we shall at once let the Colonel into our secret. We beg to tell him candidly that _we know all about it_. The fact is, that a correspondent of ours happens to reside exactly opposite Mrs. T.'s first floor, and without wishing to spy into other people's apartments, or affairs, could not help being a spectator of the scene he thus describes.

[Illustration]

He says that Col. T., entering Mrs. T.'s apartment on the first floor aforesaid, found that lady in a state of great excitement, the "Omnibus," No. 7, in her hand. After pointing in a very agitated manner to the last page, she drew forth her pocket handkerchief. The gallant Colonel paced the room evidently moved; he then appeared to be attempting to soothe her, but in vain--she shook her bonnet violently, and went off in a fit. The Colonel hereupon, instead of rushing to the chimney-piece for the smelling-bottle, seized a pint decanter, and hastily quitted the house. Immediately after, the bit of a girl was seen attempting to force a glass of cold water upon her mistress, which only seemed to make her worse; for she kicked the girl's shins with those dear little bits of black legs of hers most violently, something in the manner of Mr. Punch after he has been thrown from his horse. The gallant Colonel, after a short absence, knocked at the street door, and the moment the girl left the room to admit him, up jumped Mrs. Toddles--fact!--ran to the looking-glass over the fire-place, put her bonnet to rights, completing the adjustment with the usual side glances right and left, and then, to the utter astonishment of our informant, she resumed her seat--_and her fit_!--Oh, Mrs. T.!

We suppress the remainder of our informant's description, merely remarking, that the pint decanter, when Colonel T. drew it from his pocket, contained, to all appearance, some strong restorative, the virtue and quality whereof the Colonel at once tested, by tossing off a bumper in the most gallant manner. We have since ascertained that it was _peppermint_.

Whether our statement will be satisfactory to Colonel Walker we neither know nor care; but with respect to Mrs. Toddles we have expressed our contrition, and promise never to mention her age again. Any kindness we can render her will be at all times hers, and as a slight token of our sincerity, we respectfully beg that lady's acceptance of a pound of mixed tea, (eight-shilling green, and six-shilling black, very good,) which is left at our publisher's, if she will send her girl for it.

[Illustration: Designed. Etched & Published by George Cruikshank. January 1st 1842.

JACK O'LANTERN.]

JACK-O'LANTERN.

Every man has his Jack-o'lantern;--in dark night, in broad noon day--in the lonely wild, or in the populous city--each has his Jack-o'lantern.

To this man Jack comes in the likeness of a bottle of old port, seducing him from sobriety, and leaving him in a quagmire; to that man, he appears in the form of a splendid phaeton and a pair of greys, driving him into bankruptcy, and dropping him into the open jaws of ruin. To one he presents himself in the guise of a cigar, keeping him in a constant cloud; to another he appears in no shape but that of an old black-letter volume, over which he continues to pore long after his wits are gone. Here you see Jack blazing in scarlet, and luring his dazzled follower on by military trappings alone to the pursuit of glory; and there Jack jumps about in the brilliant motley of harlequin, tempting a grave and leaden-heeled victim to dance away his nights and days. Jack-o'lantern is to some people, a mouldy hoarded guinea--and these he leads into the miser's slough of despond; with others, when he pays them a visit, he rolls himself up into the form of a dice-box--and then he makes beggars of them.

Poetry is one man's Jack-o'lantern, and a spinning-jenny is another's. Fossil bones, buried fathoms deep in the earth, act Jack's part, and lure away one class to explore and expound; Cuyps and Claudes, in the same way, play the same part with a second class, and tempt them to collect, at the sacrifice of every other interest, or pursuit in life. Jack will now take the likeness of a French cook, and draw a patriot from his beloved country to enjoy a foreign life, cheap; and now he will assume the appearance of a glass of water, persuading the teetotaller, who "drank like a fish" in his young days, to go further astray, and drink a great deal more like a fish in his old days.

Jack-o'lantern has some attractive shape for every age and condition. In childhood, he lures us, by overhanging clusters of cherries and currants, into regions consecrated to steel-traps and spring-guns; in after-age, he takes us irresistibly into the still more dangerous region of love and romance, winning us by his best lights--the bright eyes of woman; and to the very end of our days he finds some passion or prejudice wherewith to woo us successfully--some straw wherewith to tickle us, how wise-soever, and unwilling we may be.

The very seasons of the year--each has its Jack-o'lantern. The bright glancing sunshine of a spring morning, when it tempts us into a sharp east-wind under promise of sultriness;--the rich luxuriousness of summer, when it fills us with aches and cramps, after revelling in romps among the grass. Christmas--yes, Christmas itself has its Jack-o'lantern. We do not mean the great blazing fire, which has been properly called the heart and soul of it; no, Jack plays his part amidst the roysters in the jovial time, by urging extra plum-pudding, which involves extra brandy with it; by suggesting mince-pies, and other irresistibles, that involve a fit of indigestion; by conjuring up blind-man's-buff, to lead one into the peril of rent skirts, and bruised heads; or by appearing in the form of a pack of cards, to the loss perhaps of one's money or one's temper * * *

Moralize we no longer upon Jack-o'lantern; he has led us to Christmas, and let him leave us there in pleasant company.

CHRISTMAS.

BY SAM. SLY.

Now is the time For all things prime! Cramm'd Turkeys, dropsied Lambs, and oily Geese, Forced Chickens, bloated Pigs, and tons of grease; Sir-loins of suet--legs, and wings, of fat, And boys from school, to say they "can't touch that;" Mountains of Mutton, tubs of tails and blubber, Larks by the yard, like onions on a string, And giblets by the pailful is a thing Enough to turn the stomach of a grubber, Unless he tweak his nose and shut his eyes. And then again there's piles of Lemon-peel, Hillocks of nutmegs, currants, plums, and figs; And children gazing "merry as the grigs," Longing (for that which joy cannot conceal) That some of these may sweeten their "minced pies."

Now, men get civil--lads more mild appear, Than they were wont to do throughout the year; The hat is doff'd--civilities come fast That after Christmas who shall say will last? Now, pens are busy writing out "old scores," And birds get pert and hop about our doors, Fighting their comrades for the largest crumbs. See that old lady shivering as she goes, Furr'd to the eyes, and muffled to the nose, And he who thumps his sides to warm his thumbs. Mark the lone berry on the Mountain Ash Like a child's coral on a leafless twig-- Watch the Tom-tit That's shaking it: He's getting desperate--bolting it slap dash-- A decent mouthful for a throat not big. Now here's a pretty lesson for all sinners, Hunger's the sauce to sweeten Christmas dinners. The fire burns blue--the nearest part gets roasted-- The "off-side" suffers in the frigid zone; Just like a slice of bread that's been half toasted-- One spot is brown'd--the other cold as stone. The winds are hoarse, the sun gets shy and cool, That is, he's not so warm with his embraces-- And old Jack Frost instead begins to rule, So with his brush puts rouge on ladies' faces; A tint more lovely than the finest powder, And speaking to the eye and heart much louder. Now friends get close--and cousins meet their cousins, Babbies their daddies--aunts their pretty nieces; The jokes go round, and lies perhaps by dozens, And Jacky pulls his master all to pieces. Now prayers and cards are all the go-- How's that you ask? Well, I don't know; I only know--the fact is so!

A SNAP-DRAGON:

CONSISTING OF A SONG, A SONNET, AND A SERENADE.

A "JOLLY" SONG--BY CHARLES HOOKEY WALKER, ESQ.

Leave, O! leave, that set of fellows, Who are always sensible; They give one the blues and yellows-- 'Tis most reprehensible! Stretch your mouths from ear to ear, Never mind your beauty: Wisdom never holds it dear-- Laugh, and do your duty!

Laughing does a person good, Muscles exercising; Helping to digest the food-- So 'tis not surprising That by laughing all grow fat, Chasing off the yellows, The blue devils, and all that; Laugh, then, jolly fellows!

Push the bottle round the board, Tell the tale so merry, Sing the songs that are _encored_. Let's be happy--very! Push the bottle round about, Let us hear your singing, Give it voice, and troll it out. Set the glasses ringing!

"Here's a health to her I love! Hip! hip! hip! hurra, sirs!" "D'ye think, sir, that the gods above Shave themselves with razors?" "No, sir, to be sure they don't, But with shells of oysters!" "Wine with me, sir?" "No, I won't!" Thus go on the roysters.

Laughing, quaffing, glee and fun! That's the time of day, sir; Laugh that life was e'er begun, Laugh your life away, sir! Never wish you ne'er were born, Don't sit sadly sighing; Morn and eve, from eve to morn, Laugh, for time is flying!

SONNET TO "SOME ONE."

And thou wert there! and I was not with thee! Thy bright eyes shone on many, but their ray Was just as if you had been Alice Gray, And hadn't braided up your hair for me. This method of expressing it, you see, Implies the same as if I were to say (As _vide_ song) your eyes were turned away, And my heart's breaking!--as it ought to be-- (And so it is of course). This world is drear! Most drear--without thee, SOME ONE! at my side! Death! peace! I'll go and drown myself, that's clear! In the affairs of men I'll find _my_ tide. Yes! life has now no music for my ear, Except that tune of which the old cow died!--C. H. W.

THE HOMOEOPATHIST'S SERENADE.

BY DR. BULGARDO.

The toiling sun has sped To his ever-distant goal; And the moon hangs overhead Like a silver parasol. Long has she not unfurled Her banner thus on high, But looked, for all the world, Like a muffin in the sky.

The tears saline, I weep, Have no effect I see; The screech-owl talks in her sleep, But thou say'st nought to me. Thy eyelashes, love, are soft, And long as a skein of silk; Thou'rt harmless, it strikes me oft, As a grain of sugar of milk.

WHAT DO YOU DO THAT FOR?

BY JOHN COPUS.

In this age of "why and because," wherein even Master Thomas is considered to be devoid of his proper share of intellects unless he demand a full and clear statement of the grounds on which papa considers it expedient that he should learn his letters--in this age of essays, treatises, and commissions, wherein a plethoric pig cannot quietly stuff itself to death without some Diabolus Gander investigating the probable causes which eventually led to that result--it has come into the head of one deeply and many times pondering, to call the attention of a discerning and inquiring public to various little customs and practices prevalent in the world; and this with a view of eliciting at some future time satisfactory explanations of their probable origin and rationale from abler pens and keener intellects than my own, rather than with the intention of supplying them myself.

* * * * *

Mr. Brown has seated himself in his cosey arm-chair by the fire, in his little parlour at Camberwell, having just bid adieu to the "bus" which daily conveys him to and from the City, and, with handkerchief spread over his broad countenance, is settling himself to sleep, surrounded by a wife and various olive branches; when--"Oh, my gracious evins!" exclaims his amiable spouse, a comely dame, of warm feelings, and peculiarity in expressing them, "here's Johnny been and cut hisself in such a manner you never see! Lawky-daisey me! Mr. Brown! Mr. Brown!! Johnny's a'most cut his finger orf!"

"Tsut, tsut, tsut, tsut!--deary me!--poor fellow!--tsut, tsut, tsut!" responds that individual, starting up.

Now, what on earth _do you do that for_, Brown? Come, roundly, your reason, sir? Do pray tell me _why_ you produced the series of peculiar sounds represented by "tsut, tsut," &c. You are a stout man, and a sober man,--why, in the name of all that's unaccountable, _did_ you utter them? But the fact is, you are not alone, Brown, in your inability to solve this difficult question. For I never yet encountered the man who _could_ satisfactorily explain to me how or why those sounds have come to be admitted into general society, as heralds or harbingers of a condoling and sympathising speech, or indicative, without further remark, of inward and heartfelt commiseration for suffering humanity in the breast of him who utters them. Philosophers, just explain this!

* * * * *

"Let us go and hear Miffler preach this morning," said a friend to me the other morning, in the country: "his congregation is composed entirely of the poorest, and, I should think, the most ignorant portion of our agricultural population. But they say that he manages to preach so plainly, that every one can understand and follow him."

So off we set, and a pleasant walk across the fields brought us to Elmsleigh church--one of those exceedingly picturesque old places, with a funny wooden steeple, or spire, if it can be called so, rising from the still more ancient square tower. We found Mr. Miffler in the reading-desk already, and, by his scarlet hood, knew him an Oxonian (we subsequently found he had been a first-class man). After reading the prayers exceedingly well, he ascended to the pulpit, and commenced his sermon. Now, supposing his congregation to have consisted of men of my friend's mental calibre, it was an exceedingly good and intelligible sermon; but to the majority of those present it was about as intelligible as High Dutch would have been, or Hebrew without the points. I could not help glancing at a countryman in his smockfrock and leggins, whose countenance forcibly recalled to my mind one of those grotesque satyrs occasionally seen carved on old chimney-pieces; and wondering as I gazed at him what train of thought the words which Miffler had just uttered--"_the noxious dogmas exhibited in certain patiestic commentators, subsequent to the Nicene council_"--had conjured up in his mind! Then again Miffler gravely informed his hearers that _ambition_ was a deadly sin, warning them against it. Ambition!--to a clodhopper whose only aspiration after greatness is to get Farmer Jeffreys to keep him on at work through the winter!

Miffler, _what do you do that for_? But you, again, do not stand alone. Are there not many, many Mifflers guilty of the same absurdity, and equally unable with your reverend self to give any satisfactory reason for so doing, except that their predecessors have done it before them? Oh, ye hebdomadal boards, caputs, and convocations, explain all this!

* * * * *

"Yes, I assure you, Johnson, you never saw or heard of such a perfect fool in all your life. He literally thinks I am going to support him in idleness, and he doing nothing."

"No!"

"Yes! And, would you believe it, he called on poor Thompson, and tried to persuade him that I had behaved so shabbily to him that he really shall be obliged to cut me!"

"No!"

"Yes! and he told Brown, I owed him ever so much money."

"No!"

Johnson! _what do you do that for?_ Why in the name of common sense do you say No! no! no! when you thoroughly believe all that poor Dickson has been telling you? This is a peculiar custom. Philosophers, all of you, attend to it. It needs explanation.

* * * * *

"Here's an invitation again from that odious Mrs. Peewitt!" says the fair but excitable Mrs. Framp, as she opens a scented envelope, and extracts therefrom an elegant note. "Yes! here it is:--

"'Mrs. John George Peewitt requests the pleasure of Mr. and Mrs. Framp's company to an evening party on Wednesday the --, at half-past eight.--Plover Lodge, Tuesday morning. An early answer will oblige.'"

"Now, my dear Framp," continues his lady wife, "I literally hate and detest that abominable Mrs. Peewitt!"

"Well, Laura, she is no favourite of mine, I promise you," retorts the male Framp: "and as to that Peewitt, he's a vulgar little brute. So you'd better answer it at once, Laura, declining it, you know--eh?"

In the course of the same afternoon Mrs. J. G. Peewitt is gratified by the reception of this--

"Mrs. Framp _feels exceedingly grieved_ that she and Mr. Framp are unable to accept Mrs. J. G. Peewitt's kind invitation for Wednesday,----inst.--Grumpion Parade, Tuesday afternoon."

Now Mrs. Framp, _what did you do that for_? Between you and me, and to speak in plain English--you are a story-teller, Mrs. Framp. A story-teller! And you, old gentleman--the man Framp I address--are equally guilty of the fib, as an accessory before the fact. Again, this is a prevalent custom. Philosophers, summon moralists to your aid, and descant on this subject.

* * * * *

"I am sure you sing, Mr. Frederick," says a pasty-faced individual of the 'female sect,' to a young gentleman in white satin waistcoat and red whiskers, who has been pottering about the piano for some time.

"No, indeed, Miss Gromm!" he replies. "I assure you that I scarcely sing at all."

"Oh! I am quite sure, now, you do sing. Pray do sing. Will you look over this music-book? there are a great many songs in it. I am sure you will find something that will suit you."

"Oh! upon my word, Miss Gromm, I scarcely ever sing."

Fred! you know you've brought all your music with you to-night, and have practised it carefully over with your pretty sister Bessy, purposely to sing at the Gromms'.

Thus adjured, Mr. Frederick begins to turn over the leaves of the music-book, his eyes resting occasionally on such songs as 'The Rover's Bride,' 'The British Oak,' 'Wanted a Governess,' and other songs which Fred abominates. At last he turns to a very pretty girl sitting near him, and says faintly, "Bessy! did you bring any of _your_ music?" His sister, who has been watching his proceedings, in mute surprise answers innocently enough, "Oh! yes, Fred, I brought _all your songs_, you know!" Fred looks blue; but by the time the neat case containing them has been presented to him by a servant, he has recovered himself. Now, reader, what song do you suppose this young gentleman, who scarce sings at all, will select? You are a judge of music, and you pronounce his selection admirable--for it falls on 'Adelaide,' a song of which _I_ (but this quite _entre nous_) would sooner be the composer than of any song that ever was sung: but you fear lest Fred would not do justice to it, as he sings so seldom. You are wrong. A finer tenor, better taste, and more correct ear, one rarely meets with in private than are possessed by Fred. Every one exclaims that it is a treat to hear him sing. And so it is.

Now, my excellent good Fred, _what the deuce did you do that for_? I mean, why did you lessen the pleasure which otherwise we should have all experienced, by giving us so unfavourable a view of your character at the outset--by fibbing, my friend--downright fibbing?--There are not a few Freddys, though of various degrees of excellence. This therefore is a practice which, as in the last case, calls for the investigation of moralists--aided by the Royal Academy of Music, perhaps.

This is an endless subject. I have, as it were, but just touched upon it. Let others, their bosoms expanding at the thought of conferring endless benefits on the human race by so doing, rush eagerly and at once on the grand task of following it up. Let them explore all societies. Let an emissary be despatched into the crowded saloons of my Lady Hippington. Let an accredited and competent reporter be sent to the dinner-table of Mr. Titmouse, as well as into the doubtful regions of lower life. And let their desire be, to afford as strong, as cogent, and as rational explanations of the varied customs and practices with which they may become acquainted, as my friend Tam Ridley gave when asked for his reasons for using a peculiar form of speech.

"Hoy, Jem!" said that individual, a jolly Yorkshire lad, as he pulled up his waggon opposite to a hostelrie in the North Riding,--"Hoy, Jem! what has't getten to sup te' 'morn?" "What has I getten to sup t' 'morn, Tam?" responded mine host, making his appearance in the doorway. "Ay, lad! what hast getten to sup, I say?" "Why a, I'se getten yal--dos't like yal, Tam?" "Ay! I does." "Why a then, wil't have a sup?" "Ay! I will." "Wil't have it _otted_, Tam?" "Ay! I will." "Why a, now, what maks thee say _Ay_ sae aften?" "Why a, then, _I'll mebbe say_ YES, _when t' days is langer and t' weather's warmer_!"

LINES BY A Y--G L--Y OF F--SH--N,

WHO "NEVER TOLD HER LOVE, BUT LET CONCEALMENT," ETC.

"She speaks, yet she says _n--th--g_!"--R--O AND J--T.

Go, bid the st--rs forget to shine, The o--n-tides to ebb and flow, Bid fl--rs forget to blush and pine, But bid not me to b--n--sh w--e!

Thou canst not guess my s--rr--w's source, My pass--n's spring thou canst not see; Thou knowest not its depth and force,-- Thou dreamest not 'tis l--ve for th--!

Fiercer than fires in Æ--a's breast My s--cr--t burns in this lone h--t; D--y brings no light, sl--p yields no rest, And h--vn no air, but where th-- art.

I listen to the w--nds at night, They speak of th-- in whispers fine; In D--n's or Au--ra's light, I see no beauty, none but th--!

All l--ve save mine's an idle tale Of Hy--n's torch and C--d's bow; I envy Cl--p--ra's wail, Or S--pho leaping, wild, below.

For V--ry's _pâté_ holds for me-- Or G--nt--r's soup--no poison rare; And leaping from a b--lc--y, Were quite absurd--in Belg--ve Square.

My s--st--r raves of H--w--ll, Ja--s, And thinks with dr--ss to ease my thrall; She deems not of d--vour--g flames Beneath one's f--fty-g--nea sh--wl!

M--ma to M--rt--r and St--rr Drags me with sweet maternal haste; My p--rls of s--l they can't restore, Nor l--fe's bright d--m--ds, turn'd to paste!

P--pa and br--th--r N--d would win My spirit forth to ball and rout; They think of course to t--ke me in-- Alas! they only t--ke me out!

In vain R--b--ni's sweetness now, In vain Lab--che's boldest air; In vain M--cr--dy plays,--if th--, Th--, the Ad--r'd one, art not there!

Whilst thou, unbless'd with st-ck or l-nd, Hast not one cr--wn per annum clear, Thou knowest not that--"here's my h-nd, With f-ft--n th--s--d p---ds a year."

And _were_ it known, this pass--n wild, Then d--th would at my h--rt-st--gs tug! No, none shall know that th-- art styled, The H-n-r-ble Fr-nk F-tz M--gg!