THE NEW HOUSE.
“This is the House that Jack (Bull) built.”
Once there lived, as old histories learnedly show, a
Great sailor and shipbuilder, named MISTER NOAH,
Who a hulk put together, so wondrous—no doubt of it—
That all sorts of creatures could creep in and out of it.
Things with heads, and without heads, things dumb, things loquacious,
Things with tails, and things tail-less, things tame, and things pugnacious;
Rats, lions, curs, geese, pigeons, toadies and donkeys,
Bears, dormice, and snakes, tigers, jackals, and monkeys:
In short, a collection so curious, that no man
E’er since could with NOAH compare as a show-man
At length, JOHNNY BULL, with that clever fat head of his,
Design’d a much stranger and comical edifice,
To be call’d his “NEW HOUSE”—a queer sort of menagerie
To hold all his beasts—with an eye to the Treasury.
Into this he has cramm’d such uncommon monstrosities,
Such animals rare, such unique curiosities,
That we wager a CROWN—not to speak it uncivil—
This HOUSE of BULL’S beats Noah’s Ark to the devil.
Lest you think that we bounce—the great fault, we confess, of men—
We proceed to detail some few things, as a specimen
Of what are to be found in this novel museum;
As it opens next month, you may all go and see ‘em.
Five Woods, of five shades, grain, and polish, and gilding,
Are used this diversified chamber in building.
Not a nail, bolt, or screw, you’ll discover to lurk in it,
Though six Smiths you will find every evening at work in it.
A Forman and Master you’ll see there appended too,
Whose words or instructions are never attended to.
A Leader, whom nobody follows; a pair o’ Knights,
With courage at ninety degrees of old Fahrenheit’s;
Full a hundred “Jim Crows,” wheeling round about—round about,
Yet only one Turner’s this House to be found about.
Of hogs-heads, Lord knows, there are plenty to spare of them,
But only one Cooper is kept to take care of them.
A Ryder’s maintain’d, but he’s no horse to get upon;
There’s a Packe too, and only one Pusey to set upon.
Two Palmers are kept, holy men, in this ill, grim age,
To make every night their Conservative pilgrimage.
A Fuller, for scouring old coats and redressing them;
A Taylor to fashion; and Mangles for pressing them.
Two Stewarts, two Fellowes, a Clerk, and a Baillie,
To keep order, yet each call’d to order are, daily.
A Duke, without dukedom—a matter uncommon—
And Bowes, the delight, the enchantment of woman.
This house has a Tennent, but ask for the rent of it,
He’d laugh at, and send you to Brussels or Ghent for it.
Of the animals properly call’d so, a sample
We’ll give to you gentlefolks now, for example:—
There are bores beyond count, of all ages and sizes,
Yet only one Hogg, who both learned and wise is.
There’s a Buck and a Roebuck, the latter a wicked one,
Whom few like to play with—he makes such a kick at one.
There are Hawkes and a Heron, with wings trimm’d to fly upon,
And claws to stick into what prey they set eye upon.
There’s a Fox, a smart cove, but, poor fellow, no tail he has;
And a Bruen—good tusks for a feed we’ll be bail he has.
There’s a Seale, and four Martens, with skins to our wishes;
There’s a Rae and two Roches, and all sorts of fishes;
There’s no sheep, but a Sheppard—“the last of the pigtails”—
And a Ramsbottom—chip of the old famous big tails.
Now to mention in brief a few trifles extraneous,
By connoisseurs class’d, “odds and ends miscellaneous:”—
There’s a couple of Bells—frights—nay, Hottentots real!
A Trollope, of elegance le beau ideal.
Of Browne, Green, and Scarlett men, surely a sack or more,
Besides three whole White men, preserved with a Blakemore.
There’s a Hill, and a Hutt, and a Kirk, and—astounding!
The entire of old Holland this house to be found in.
There’s a Flower, with a perfume so strong ‘twould upset ye all;
And the beauty of Somers is here found perpetual.
There’s a Bodkin, a Patten, a Rose, and a Currie,
And a man that’s still Hastie, though ne’er in a hurry.
There is Cole without smoke, a “sou’-West” without danger;
And a Grey, that to place is at present a stranger.
There’s a Peel,—but enough! if you’re a virtuoso
You’ll see for yourself, and next month you may do so;
When, if you don’t say this New House is a wonder,
We’re Dutchmen—that’s all!—and at once knuckle under.
WATERFORD ELECTION.
The Tories at Waterford carried the day,
And the reign of the Rads is for ever now past;
For one who was Wyse he got out of the way,
And the hopes of the other proved Barron at last.
STATE OF TRADE.
We are sorry to perceive that trade was never in a more alarming state than at present. A general strike for wages has taken place amongst the smiths. The carpenters have been dreadfully cut up; and the shoemakers find, at the last, that it is impossible to make both ends meet. The bakers complain that the pressure of the times is so great, that they cannot get the bread to rise. The bricklayers swear that the monopolists ought to be brought to the scaffold. The glaziers, having taken some pains to discover the cause of the distress, declare that they can see through the whole affair. The gardeners wish to get at the root of the evil, and consequently have become radical reformers. The laundresses have washed their hands clean of the business. The dyers protest that things never looked so blue in their memory, as there is but a slow demand for
FAST COLOURS.
The butchers are reduced to their last stake. The weavers say their lives hang by a single thread. The booksellers protest we must turn over a new leaf. The ironmongers declare that the times are very hard indeed. The cabmen say business is completely at a stand. The watermen are all aground. The tailors object to the government measures;—and the undertakers think that affairs are assuming a grave aspect. Public credit, too, is tottering;—nobody will take doctors’ draughts, and it is difficult to obtain cash for the best bills (of the play). An extensive brandy-ball merchant in the neighbourhood of Oxford-street has called a meeting of his creditors; and serious apprehensions are entertained that a large manufacturer of lollypops in the Haymarket will be unable to meet his heavy liabilities. Two watchmakers in the city have stopped this morning, and what is more extraordinary, their watches have “stopped” too.
THE NORMANDIE “NO GO.”
The figure, stuffed with shavings, of a French grenadier, constructed by the Duke of Normandie, and exhibited by him recently at Woolwich, which he stated would explode if fired at by bullets of his own construction, possitively objected to being blown up in such a ridiculous manner; and though several balls were discharged at the man of shavings, he showed no disposition to move. The Duke waxed exceedingly wroth at the coolness of his soldier, and swore, if he had been a true Frenchman, he would have gone off at the first fire.
A CONUNDRUM BY COL. SIBTHORP.
“What’s the difference between the top of a mountain and a person afflicted with any disorder?”—“One’s a summit of a hill, and the other’s ill of a summut.”
A CLASSICAL INSCRIPTION FOR A CIGAR CASE.
Τὸ βακχικὸν δώρημα λαβὲ, σὲ γὰρ Φιλω̑.—EURIPIDES.
FREE TRANSLATION.
“Accept this gift of To-Baccha—cigar fellow.”
FASHIONS FOR THE PRESENT WEEK.
Though the dog-days have not yet commenced, muzzlin is very general, and a new sort of shally, called shilly-shally, is getting remarkably prevalent. Shots are still considered the greatest hits, for those who are anxious to make a good impression; flounces are out in the morning, and tucks in at dinner-parties, the latter being excessively full, and much sought after. At conversaziones, puffs are very usual, and sleeves are not so tight as before, to allow of their being laughed in; jewels are not now to be met with in the head, which is left au naturel—that is to say, as vacant as possible.
“Why is the Gazette like a Frenchman’s letter?”—“Because it is full of broken English.”
BREACH OF PRIVILEGE.
In the strangers’ gallery in the American house of representatives, the following notice is posted up:—“Gentlemen will be pleased not to place their feet on the boards in front of the gallery, as the dirt from them falls down on the senators’ heads.” In our English House of Commons, this pleasant penchant for dirt-throwing is practised by the members instead of the strangers. It is quite amusing to see with what energy O’Connell and Lord Stanley are wont to bespatter and heap dirt on each other’s heads in their legislative squabbles!
SHOCKING WANT OF SYMPATHY.
Sir Peter Laurie has made a sad complaint to the Lord Mayor, of the slippery state of the wooden pavement in the Poultry, and strongly recommended the immediate removal of the blocks. This is most barbarous conduct on the part of Sir Peter. Has he lost all natural affection for his kindred, that he should seek to injure them in public estimation? Has he no secret sympathy for the poor blocks whom he has traduced? Let him lay his hand upon his head and confess that—
“A fellow feeling; makes us wondrous kind.”