NOUVEAU MANUEL DU VOYAGEUR.
These are the continental-trip days. All the world will be now a-touring. But every one is not a Dr. Bowring, and it is rather convenient to be able to edge in a word now and then, when these rascally foreigners will chatter in their own beastly jargon. Ignorant pigs, not to accustom themselves to talk decent English! Il Signor Marchese Cantini, the learned and illustrious author of “Hi, diddlo-diddlino! Il gutto e’l violino!”, has just rendered immense service to the trip-loving natives of these lovely isles, by preparing a “Guide to Conversation,” that for utility and correctness of idiom surpasses all previous attempts of the same kind. With it in one hand, and a bagful of Napoléons or Zecchini in the other, the biggest dunce in London—nay, even a schoolmaster—may travel from Boulogne to Naples and back, with the utmost satisfaction to himself, and with substantial profit to the people of these barbarous climes. The following is a specimen of the way in which Il Signor has accomplished his undertaking. It will be seen at a glance how well he has united the classical with the utilitarian principle, clothing both in the purest dialect; ex. gr.:—
| THIS IS ENGLISH. | THIS IS FRENCH. | THIS IS ITALIAN. |
| Does your mother know you’re out? | Madame, votre maman, sait-elle que vous n’êtes pas chez vous? | La vostra signora madre sa che siete uscito di casa? |
| It won’t do, Mr. Ferguson. | Cela nese passera, Monsieur Ferguson, jamais! | Questo non fara cosi, il Signore Fergusoni! |
| Who are you? | Est-ce que vous aviez jamais un père? | Chi è vossignoria? |
| All round my hat. | Tout autour mon chapeau. | Tutto all’ interno del mio capello! |
| Go it, ye cripples! | C’est ça! Battez-vous bien—boiteux; cr-r-r-r-matin! | Bravo! bravo, stroppiati! Ancora-ancora! |
| Such a getting up-stairs! | Diantre! comme on monte l’escalier! | Come si ha salito— è maraviglioso! |
| Jump, Jim Crow. | Sautez, Monsiuer Jaques Corbeau! | Salti, pergrazia, Signor Giamomo Corvo! |
It would not be fair to rob the Signor of any more of his labour. It will be seen that, on the principle of the Painter and his Cow, we have distinctly written above each sentence the language it belongs to. It is always better to obviate the possibility of mistakes.
THE OMNIBUS
The horrors of an omnibus,
Indeed, I’ve cause to curse;
And if I ride in one again,
I hope ‘twill be my hearse.
If you a journey have to go,
And they make no delay,
’Tis ten to one you’re serv’d like curds,
They spill you on the WHEY.
A short time since my wife and I
A short call had to make,
And giving me a kiss, she said—
“A buss you’d better take!”
We journey’d on—two lively cads,
Were for our custom triers;
And in a twinkling we were fix’d
Fast by this pair of pliers!
My wife’s arm I had lock’d in mine,
But soon they forced her from it;
And she was lugg’d into the Sun,
And I into the Comet!
Jamm’d to a jelly, there I sat,
Each one against me pushing;
And my poor gouty legs seem’d made
For each one’s pins—a cushion!
My wife some time had gone before:
I urged the jarvey's speed,
When all at once the bus set off
At fearful pace, indeed!
I ask’d the coachee what caused this?
When thus his story ran:—
“Vy, a man shied at an oss, and so
An oss shied at a man!”
Oh, fearful crash! oh, fearful smash!
At such a rate we run,
That presently the Comet came
In contact with the Sun.
At that sad time each body felt,
As parting with its soul,
We were, indeed, a little whirl’d,
And shook from pole to pole!
Dunn, the miller of Wimbledon, has recently given his infant the Christian name of Cardigan. If there is truth in the adage of “give a dog a bad name and hang him,” the poor child has little else in perspective than the gallows.
PRAY DON’T TELL THE GOVERNOR.
A SONG OF TON.
Why, y-e-s—‘twas rather late last night;
In fact, past six this morning.
My rascal valet, in a fright,
Awoke, and gave me warning.
But what of that?—I’m very young.
And you’ve “been in the Oven,” or,
Like me, you’re wrong’d by rumour’s tongue,
So—pray don’t tell the Governor.1 1. The author is aware there exists a legitimate rhyme for Porringer, but believes a match for governor lies still in the terra incognita of allowable rhythm.
I dined a quarter after seven,
With Dashall of the Lancers;
Went to the opera at eleven,
To see the ballet-dancers.
From thence I saunter’d to the club—
Fortune to me’s a sloven—or,
I surely must have won one rub,
But—mind! don’t tell the Governor!
I went to Ascot t’other day,
Drove Kitty in a tandem;
Upset it ’gainst a brewer’s dray—
I’d dined, so drove at random.
I betted high—an “outside” won—
I’d swear its hoofs were cloven, or
It ne’er the favourite horse had done,
But—don’t you tell the Governor.
My cottage ornée down at Kew,
So picturesque and pretty,
Cost me of thousands not a few,
To fit it up for Kitty.
She said it charm’d her fancy quite,
But (still I can’t help loving her)
She bolted with the plate one night—
You needn’t tell the Governor.
My creditors are growing queer,
Nay, threaten to be furious;
I’ll scan their paltry bills next year,
At present I’m not curious.
Such fellows are a monstrous bore,
So I and Harry Grosvenor
To-morrow start for Gallia’s shore,
And leave duns—to the Governor.
THE EXPLOSIVE BOX.
Sir Hussey Vivian was relating to Sir Robert Peel the failure of the Duke of Normandie’s experiment with a terrible self-explosive box, which he had buried in a mound at Woolwich, in the expectation that it would shortly blow up, but which still remains there, to the great terror of the neighbourhood, who are afraid to approach the spot where this destructive engine is interred. Sir Robert, on hearing the circumstance, declared that Lord John Russell had served him the same trick, by burying the corn-law question under the Treasury bench. No one knew at what moment it might explode, and blow them to ——. “The question,” he added, “now is—who will dig it out?”
EXCLUSIVE INTELLIGENCE.
(From OUR West-end and “The Observer’s” Correspondent.)
We have every reason to believe, unless a very respectable authority, on whom we are in the habit of relying, has grievously imposed upon us, that a very illustrious personage has consulted a certain exalted individual as to whether a certain other person, no less exalted than the latter, but not so illustrious as the former, shall be employed in a certain approaching event, which at present is involved in the greatest uncertainty. Another individual, who is more dignified than the third personage above alluded to, but not nearly so illustrious as the first, and not half so exalted as the second, has nothing whatever to do with the matter above hinted at, and it is not at all probable that he will be ever in the smallest way mixed up with it. For this purpose we have cautiously abstained from giving his name, and indeed only allude to him that there may be no misapprehension on this very delicate subject.
ANIMAL MAGNETISM.
The Times gives a horrible description of some mesmeric experiments by a M. Delafontaine, by which a boy was deprived of all sensation. We suspect that some one has been operating upon the Poor Law Commissioners, for their total want of feeling is a mesmeric phenomenon.
ON SIR EDWARD LYTTON BULWER, BART., not M.P. FOR LINCOLN.
That Bulwer’s from fair Lincoln bann’d,
Doth threaten evil days;
For, having much waste time on hand,
Alas! he’ll scribble plays.