FASHIONS FOR 1849.
The rage for flounces in ladies' dresses will grow deeper and deeper. Two noble Duchesses will compete as to the greater number. They will continue each time bidding one flounce over one another, till their dresses will be nothing but flounces. The fashion is evidently borrowed from the hackney-coachman's cape.
PORTRAIT OF A LADY OF RANK AS SHE WILL APPEAR AT THE HORTICULTURAL FETE NEXT YEAR.
Gentlemen's fashions will remain just the same, that is to say, as ugly as ever.
A DREAM OF THE YEAR.
(AFTER PLANCHE'S "DÆDALUS.")
I'm in such a flutter I scarcely can utter
The words to my tongue that come dancing—come dancing
I've had such a dream, that it really must seem
To a telegraph e'en like romancing—romancing;
I must have got frisky on Kinahan's whisky,
Although I don't wish you to blab it—to blab it;
Or else 'twas a question of slight indigestion,
Through eating too much of Welsh rabbit—Welsh rabbit.
I dreamt Lord John Russell was dining with Fussell,
To meet Louis Blanc and Alboni—Alboni,
When Feargus O'Connor declared, on his honour,
He'd only had half a polony—polony.
On which all the Chartists and Suffolk Street artists
Ran off to the train and got in it—got in it,
In spite of their fears of the new engineers,
Who blew up a boiler a minute—a minute.
On this, Ben Disraeli, who'd burnt the Old Bailey,
Declined being paid for his trouble—his trouble;
And ran in a funk to the Joss on the junk,
To prove Schleswig-Holstein a bubble—a bubble.
So Barbés and Blanqui both looked very cranky,
Because Jenny Lind chose to marry-to marry;
But Thackeray cried, "If you bother the bride,
I'll wed her at once to John Parry—John Parry."
FOUR WARNED——FOUR ARMED.
I next had a row, I can scarcely tell how,
With Van Amburgh for showing his lion—his lion,
And stealing a sack from the widow Cormack,
In which she had popp'd Smith O'Brien—O'Brien;
When Soyer came up with a Summerley cup,
Just purchased at Stowe for a shilling—a shilling,
And told the inspector he'd give him some nectar,
Provided they came to no killing—no killing.
Then Anstey arose, and he took off his clothes,
To prepare for a six months' oration—oration;
When Monsieur Dumas said he was but an ass,
To bathe in the Hyde Park stagnation—stagnation.
On which hurry-scurry they flew in a hurry,
To shut Mrs. Gore in the Tower—the Tower—
With Juba and Pell, to amuse her as well,
Whilst she wrote fifteen novels an hour—an hour.
But Charles Dickens caught up a plate quick as thought,
And made it spin round on his finger—his finger:
Till Wellington came, and observing his game,
Was afraid any longer to linger—to linger.
So Gilbert A'Beckett swore he would soon check it,
And drew up a statement confessing—confessing,
That all he had done had been nothing but fun,
So Wakley might give him his blessing—his blessing.
I next heard a scream, and a whistle and gleam,
A racketing noise and a humming—a humming;
And then an increase of the railway police
Proved Mr. G. Hudson was coming—was coming.
As he aimed at my head I jumped clean out of bed,
For I knew he would give me no quarter—no quarter;
And a knock at the door as I fell on the floor
Show'd the servant had brought my hot water—hot water.
THE TERMINUS OF THE SOUTH-WESTERN RAILWAY
A RAILWAY TRIP IN THE AUTUMN OF 1848 IN
SEARCH OF THE PICTURESQUE.
It is not so easy to find the New Waterloo Terminus of the South-Western Railway, but, by dint of innumerable halfpence to innumerable little boys, and chartering several policemen, we found it at last. It is a good day's walk from Waterloo Bridge—that is to say, if you cross the river in the morning, you may reach it before the evening; even then you will require to have a guide, or else you will infallibly pass it without ever suspecting that tremendous high wall, with a lamp-post growing out of the top, is
The architecture of the terminus partakes very largely of the impromptu Band-box Order. The offices must have been designed by the architect who ran up in one day the House of Commons Committee Rooms. You imagine innumerable floors must have been torn up, for all the works published at this office are bound in strong boards. However, they look very light and airy, though hardly adapted, we should say, to stand against a strong wind. It would be a curious sight to see, some day next March, a covey of railway offices winging their way down the Strand in the direction of Birdcage Walk.
But the railway is whistling to us. Suppose we take a four-penny trip down the line to view the
SPLENDID SCENERY FROM WATERLOO
BRIDGE TO NINE-ELMS.
We believe there is nothing like it in the world, excepting the Blackwall line.
We will jot down right and left the principal beauties that most enchant us on this picturesque little railway, which is certainly the most laconic line that was ever sent through the electric post by one company to another.
We are sitting with our backs (though, by-the-bye, we have but one back) to the New Cut; the fertile district of Lambeth is on one side, the milky river on the other.
We were quite taken aback with the immense forest of chimneys which the engine cuts through like so much brush wood; they seem to be the only vegetation of the place. It is easy to distinguish the chimneys that have been recently stacked from those of previous years' crops. A curious windmill, supposed to have attained the age of three hundred and twenty, meets the left eye. It is quite the Methuselah of windmills. Cockney artists come from far and near to ask it to give them a sitting.
Your right eye will not fail to light up with the group of merry pipers that are sitting on the roof of the "Duke of Wellington." Their bright tankards sparkle in the sun, with which they moisten their respective clays. They present a pleasing picture of the happy peasantry of the suburbs. One laughing fellow presents his tankard to us, but we are obliged to refuse it, from the reason that the railway will not stop to allow us to take it.
An immense volume of smoke from a supposed brewery, though the perfume from the brewery is not particularly hoppy, is at the present moment delivered to the public in numbers. The passenger, if he is wise, will shut his eyes, and not open them again till he sees that it has quite blown over.
A magpie in a wicker cage, suspended from an attic window, is worth the passing sympathy of the third-class passenger. The first-class ditto can have no sympathy, from the obvious fact that he cannot see anything (Mem. To enjoy nature, there is nothing like the third-class; to enjoy a good snooze, there is nothing like the first.) We do not envy that poor magpie, with the engine rushing by him all day long. See how he crouches into the corner of his prison! And hark! he has learnt the railway whistle. Wretched bird! thou canst not have a pleasant life of it. How willingly, methinks, thou wouldst hop the twig, if thou couldst!
But what is that? It looks like a large game of scratch-cradle—but no, it isn't—it is merely the top of a gas factory. We wonder if they take off the lids of those immense black cauldrons, when they want to see how the pot boils?
Behold how contentedly that man is smoking his pipe, with his bare arms resting on the parapet of the railway, as if it were a cushion. The train rushes screaming by him, but not an eye winks, not a nerve shakes. The pipe still hangs from the lips of that iron man—well adapted to live so close and be, a railway sleeper. By-the-bye, it cannot be pleasant to have an engine almost touching your bedroom window whilst you are shaving!
Look to your right, you will see the Houses of Parliament, the Barrycade of Westminster that has now been up for six years, and likely to remain up for thirty more. The bird you see on the top is a crane. It is sacred hereabouts, and is highway robbery if any one attempts to dislodge it.
The Thames is worth looking at; but you must be quick, for unless you look down that narrow street before the train passes it, you will not see it. The silver speck—like a half-crown—you see at the end of that lane is the Thames.
Turn quick to the left; you will perceive what an Englishman most delights in—a fight.
Bah! you're too late; the Policeman has emerged from some invisible spot, and the fight is adjourned. One man in blue disperses five hundred Britons.
You will see plenty of English Interiors on each side of the country. They display all varieties of paper, mostly at a halfpenny a yard. How desolate the fireplaces look, and yet they are interesting, as the last abiding-places of the grate must always be.
How ferocious those chimneys look!—they give you quite a turn. Hurrah! now we approach Vauxhall! At night you can see the fireworks for nothing. Sometimes they drop in also upon you. A Roman wheel occasionally visits the first-class carriage, when he proves a very troublesome visitor, and which no one likes to turn out. The sticks—the departed ghosts of the short-lived rockets—think nothing of falling down upon the third-class passengers. But in the day-time you have nothing of these entertainments. All you see is the shell of the pagoda peeping through the trees, or an artist busy in veneering ham for the sandwiches; or you may get a small view of the airy abode of Il Diavolo, who led such a wire-drawn existence.
Holla! there's a cab coming over Vauxhall Bridge, and a steamer going underneath it. The horse still carries it over steam occasionally.
Now, you have reached the Vauxhall terminus. But which is the way out? There, down that trap. Why, it looks like the cabin of a steamer; but it isn't. Venture down it—it only takes you into the cellar, for the passengers at this station are shot out through a dry arch. But this species of exit—underhand as it is—is not half so perplexing as the one at Waterloo Bridge—as they will persist in calling the terminus—though never were Directors so far out in their calculations. Here, as you rush in a hurry to discover the exit, you are stopped by the following directions:—
Well, how have you enjoyed your trip? Only consider the variegated landscape, the picturesque scenery, the wonderful insight into the domestic habits of the natives, which you have just enjoyed in your delightful little trip of three minutes' rapid flight over roof and chimneys, from Waterloo Bridge to Nine Elms. If you are a real lover of nature, you will never forget it as long as you live.
RAILWAY PORTRAITS, TAKEN AT THE RATE OF FIFTY MILES AN HOUR.
EMIGRATION CARRIED TO AN ABSURD EXTENT,
OR,
WIDDICOMBE SITTING AMONGST THE RUINS OF LONDON.
An Asylum for Stranded Passengers.—The Lowther Arcade has been called the Gents' Umbrella. Might it not also be called the Ladies' Parasol?
THE HAUNT OF THE REINDEER.
THE SYREN AND THE PHILOSOPHER.
A MARINE DUET.
Syren. Here beneath the deep blue waters
Where the sea-plants twist and curl,
And the ocean's loveliest daughters
Dwell in palaces of pearl,
Come unto me. I've a notion
That for those of mortal birth
Fairer far must be the ocean
Than the dry and stupid earth.
Phil. No, fair Peri; I have lectured
On each scientific theme,
And propounded, and conjectured—
Showed the air-pump, gas, and steam.
But, to make my story shorter,
I was taught, e'en in my teens,
When the nose is under water
Suffocation supervenes.
Syren. Golden halls with diamonds dusted
Shall rejoice thy wondering eyes.
Phil. No, with barnacles encrusted,
There each foundered treasure lies.
Syren. Every costly jewel twinkles
In the ocean's caverns green.
Phil. No, there's naught but weeds and winkles
On those rocks that I have seen.
Syren. Daintiest food, my mortal lover,
I will bring thee with this hand.
Phil. No, I fear I should discover
'Midst the viands too much sand.
Syren. I will love thee well and dearly,
Sing thee songs of music rare.
Phil. No, acoustics prove most clearly
Sound exists alone in air.
Syren. Sea-born nymphs shall serve your table—
Syrens of the fairest mien.
Phil. I assure you 'tis a fable,
Mermaids yet have ne'er been seen.
One there was in Piccadilly,
Half a fish, and half an ape;
You must think me very silly
To believe in such a shape.
Syren. Horrid science! ever giving
Negatives to fancies fair;
Yet, if I can't have thee living—
Dead, my kingdom you shall share.
I will raise the waters o'er thee;
See, they rise! you have no boat.
Phil. But I swim away before thee,
Furnished with a Patent Float!
