A LEAF OUT OF LEDRU ROLLIN'S BOOK.
"In my celebrated book (which, I regret to say, has already proved the ruin of my French publisher) I have left out many examples of the 'Decline of England,' which I now hasten to supply.
"With what examples of thy perfidy, O Albion! shall I begin? Indeed, they are so numerous that I would as soon essay to reckon the grains of sand in one of thy tubs of sugar, as count them.
"Hast thou any Coffee? No! it is all Chicory, thou art too poor to drink coffee as the brave Parisians drink it, and though the doctors say chicory is good for the health, I hold that it is one of the causes of thy 'Decline.'
"Thou art so poor, too, that lately thou hast been obliged to cut off the skirts of thy officers' jackets, to make trousers, I suppose, for thy miserable soldiers.
THE SICK BRITISH LION AND THE FRENCH QUACK MONKEY.
BRITANNIA PAWNING HER TRIDENT.
JOHN BULL ON HIS LAST LEGS.
"The same symptoms of 'Decline' run through all the bodies of England; legislative, judicial, theatrical, and even royal. Is it not true that thou art reducing the salaries of all her ministers, and it is a great question whether Prince Albert himself will not be put on board wages? Is it not true that the admission at Vauxhall has been reduced to one shilling, because England's haughty nobility can no longer afford to pay four? Is it not true that the Queen has been obliged to pull down a beautiful marble arch in front of her palace in Buckingham, merely to make Carrara water out of it? Is it not true that England's favourite authors, Charles Bulwer, Albert Dickens, and Sir Edward Lytton Smith, have been compelled, by the iron pressure of the times, to publish their works in penny editions, because the public could no longer afford to give 1l. 11s. 6d. for them? Is it not also true that the Omnibuses—those running barometers of the social weather—have brought down their prices to threepence instead of half-a-crown? Is it not likewise true that the market for wives has been so overstocked lately that the City authorities are obliged to enlarge Smithfield; that ices are selling in the streets for one penny, and pineapples are being hawked about at two-pence apiece, because they cannot be sold at any price in the shops; and is it not likewise the truth that Englishmen are now too poor to give a penny to be shaved, and that several shops in the New Cut, and the Seven Vials, are writing up in their windows—I have seen it myself—'A clean shave for one halfpenny'.
"These are solemn, rueful, ugly truths, which show too plainly where lie the seeds of England's decline.
"One more little proof, and I have finished with this distressing subject, though it has yielded me a certain malicious pleasure in the investigation of it. I have just been told that there is not a Stilton cheese in all London but what is thoroughly decayed. The fact is as clear as a cup of (French) coffee. The people have no money to buy these cheeses, and they have been kept so long on the shelves of the shops that they have all gone bad. I point, therefore, with exulting scorn to a Stilton cheese, and say 'Libellers behold' la décadence of mity Angleterre. I shall tell my publisher (Mr. John Bull) to give a morsel of Stilton cheese with every copy he sells of my book.
"Ledru Rollin."
TRAVELLING FOR THE MILLION.
A SONG OF THE PANORAMAS.
BY A CLERK WHO HAS READ MACAULAY.
Leave to the middle classes
The joys of Camden Town,
Let unambitious asses
To Islington come down.
Let Clapham grow uproarious,
On mild domestic wines,
And Kennington luxurious
On cheap West India pines.
No ruins kept in neat repair,
No new "antiques" for me;
No arbours where the earwigs fall
Into the strangers' tea!
I love not the "last omnibus"—
Dark vehicle of fate—
That always when 'tis sought at nine,
Has left at half-past eight!
My home is on the raging seas,
Or some far distant shore,
Though in my office I am pent
Each day from ten till four.
Vast Egypt's parched and burning sands
No strangers are to me;
Though I must be at home at ten,
And have not a latch-key!
Each night—or mayhap morning—
Should leisure on me smile,
My heart rebounds beholding
The wonders of the Nile;
The Sphynx's solemn majesty,
That Kinglake could appal,
I solve for just a shilling
At the Egyptian Hall.
Or led by golden longings
(I'm also fond of "change"),
My gaze on California
Delightedly will range,
Beholding Nature's grandest gifts,
With blackguardism blent,
All open to the public at
The same establishment!
To India's burning shores I go,
Across the ocean grand,
Or patronize the other route—
The famous "overland;"
With Stocqueler's companionship,
Along the sands sublime,
From Regent Street the journey's made
'Tween lunch and dinner time.
While slaves at Verray's, "cabin'd cribb'd,"
Walk into plates of ice,
I range the entire Polar seas,
And pay but the same price.
Of blubber and harpoons, my friends,
I know, believe, each tale,
For oft I hear some one compare
My stories to a whale.
Beer from the homely pewter,
To "gents" I leave with scorn,
And quench my roving thirst from out
The famous Golden Horn;
Oh! what are chimney-pots to me
Who minarets have seen?
Ask one who's been in Whitecross Street,
What 'tis to quarantine!
Yet must I soon my rambles end,
Till spring shall soothe my sight;
The Mississippi moves me not,
I've Paris seen by night;—
But let me pause, too soon I blame
My melancholy fate,
A Hansom to Australia!
I swear I'll emigrate!
