THE LANGUAGE OF VEGETABLES.
We do not think there is in the whole history of letters anything more beautiful than the two following specimens. Any one acquainted with the vegetable vocabulary cannot fail to be touched deeply by them.
The first was addressed to Sigismond by his devoted wife Toot-sichfootsich, when he was imprisoned by Kalbskopf II. in the impregnable fortress of Dummerkerl, in the Spitzbübe mountains, in Moldavia.
The originals, and the monuments of Sigismond's wonderful escape, are still preserved, with the greatest reverence, by the proud descendants of his wife's noble family. Admirers of conjugal affection have been known to journey to the Spitzbübe Mountains purposely to look at them. The first letter was scratched with a pin on a large cabbage leaf, and sent into the castle wrapped round a pound of butter:—
"Beloved Greens!—Dry thy Onions. There is Cabbage in the horizon. Suppress thy Spinage, there's a darling Bean. Support thy Haricots with Beetroot, and never let young Radish leave thy dear Asparagus. May Pickled Gherkins watch over thee, and Early Peas strew Mashed Potatoes, with Blessed Chickweed, over thy suffering Turniptop! Where is thy boastod Sourkrout? Have a little Brocoli, my own sweet Bean; and put thy Chickweed in Parsley. There is Tomata yet for both of us, so pray hide thy Cauliflower for a few short Sprouts, and Capers must soon be ours! Confide in Mangel-würzel. I enclose thee a hundred Greens from the bottom of my Green Stuff, and remain, my fondest Beetroot,
"Thy own dear Marrowfat."
The answer, though in a humbler strain, was not less eloquent. It was rolled up in little crumbs of bread, which were made into the shape of pills, and thrown out of the prisoner's window:—
"My sweetest Marrowfat!—My Asparagus is well nigh bursting. My Salad is overflowing, and I cannot rest at night from too much Mustard seed. Send me, an thou hopest hereafter for Asparagus, a Scarlet-Runner, and a small Cow Cabbage. Trust in Sage, and throw thyself fondly on Watercress.
"Thy unfortunate Greens."
The Scarlet-Runner, which is the vegetable emblem for a file, was hidden in the heel of a boot, and the Cow Cabbage, which is the beautiful synonym for a rope, smuggled in to the poor prisoner through a large German sausage, of which he was passionately fond. He escaped that very night, and repaid with the affection of a whole life the devotion of his attached "Marrowfat," that is to say his wife; we do not give a translation of these memorable letters, as we wish our readers to refer to the Language of Vegetables itself; for we feel it is so fascinating a science that when once they go into it, they will not leave a single vegetable unturned till they have got to the root of every word.
IF,
!!!AND???
If marriages are made in heaven, what a pity the happy pair should leave the place directly, upon a mere matter of ceremony!
If thou stoodest outside the door, thy hand upon the handle, hast thou ever paused to arrange thy curls, and to pull up thy collar, and to inspect first thy wristbands, and then thy boots? If so, thou hast loved, ay, and madly too.
If a good name were purchasable, how few would avail themselves of the luxury if they had to pay ready money for it!
If there is really "luck in odd numbers," we can account for the curious fact of so many ladies stopping half of their lives at the age of thirty-nine.
If two is company, and three is none, what a very melancholy time old Cerberus must have of it!
If "distance lends enchantment to the view," then the British Drama ought to hold out to speculators the most enchanting views in the world, for never were its prospects so distant as at the present moment.
If Napoleon had won the battle of Waterloo, Gomersal must have died comparatively unknown.
If man and wife had a plate glass to their hearts, how long would they remain together?
If soda-water had only been known in the time of Alexander, it is but fair to conclude that the murder of Clytus never would have taken place.
If England were to be divided to-morrow morning equally among all its inhabitants, we should not like to be the man whose dismal lot for life turned out to be Trafalgar Square!
If Janus really had two faces, we deeply pity him, if he ever drank a tumbler of Vauxhall punch, for he must have had the following morning two headaches instead of one!
If animals could speak, we can imagine the first words a donkey would address to man would be "Et tu brute."
If there were no "if's" in the world, there would be no arguments; no rules of three; no political economy; no more ingenious speculations about the fate of Europe if England had lost the battle of Waterloo (if it had, several shareholders would never have lost their money on Waterloo Bridge, by-the-bye); no more letters from Joseph Ady about certain valuable information if a sovereign is sent by return of post; no more liberal promises from fathers as to what they will do if their sons will only improve, and keep good hours; no more financial experiments (Sir Robert Peel's scheme for the income-tax was only one elongated "if," and its repeal is a still more extended one); and lastly, this clever little article upon "if's" never would have been written, if there had been no such word in the language as "if."
THE LITERARY SCARCITY.
A LETTER FROM A LONDON PENNY-A-LINER TO A PROVINCIAL DITTO.
Tom, my boy, how are you? Precious slack here, I can tell you; business never was so dull. I haven't had an Atrocious Murder on my hands these three months. If this panic continues I shall be so much out of practice that I'm blessed if I shall know how to do a Murder when a good opportunity occurs. Unless some good lady has the kindness to kill her husband—(how fashions change! I can recollect the time when husbands used to kill their wives: however, it's all the same)—I must starve, without having the chance either of making a penny by my own death. By-the-bye, I have had serious ideas lately of committing an "Awful Suicide"—don't be startled, I mean only in the papers. I have reckoned it up, and find that I should make nearly a sovereign by it—a temptation, my tulip, in these times, and well worth an imaginary duck in the Thames.
See, my dear Tom, I make it out as follows:—
| s. | d. | |
|---|---|---|
| Awful Suicide (say from Waterloo Bridge), at three-halfpence per line | 3 | 0 |
| A Romance of Real Life (founded on the above) | 2 | 6 |
| Public Inquest | 5 | 0 |
| Adjourned Meeting | 2 | 9¼ |
| Malicious Fabrication, a long letter from myself, declaring most circumstantially that I am not, and have never been dead, and spurning in the most indignant manner (to the extent probably of three shillings) the Verdict of "Temporary Insanity" | 4 | 7 |
| Another Letter, commenting with moderation on the atrocious cruelty of the fabrication, and lashing Lord John for not instituting proceedings for the discovery of the Monster in human form, who first propagated the Heartless Rumour | 1 | 11¼ |
| ———— | ———— | |
| 19 | 9¾ |
Now I know, Tom, this would be unprofessional, but really in times like these, when a capital execution scarcely turns up once a year, it doesn't do for a person to be over nice; besides, if I do extinguish my vital spark for six days, where's the great harm? Not a person sustains the slightest injury; I have no relations to blackguard me afterwards for not dying. I have no heirs to sue the paper for damages; I have no grandmothers to be hurried into an early grave by the intelligence; and I get a week's dinners by dying at a time I was never more puzzled how to live. My table, I can assure you, has not groaned under the luxuries of the season for ever so long. So where is the great sin of leaving this sublunary sphere for seven days, if I cannot keep soul and body together without it? Psha! it's all affectation, and I have a good mind to try an Awful Suicide to-morrow; and, to make it more interesting, call myself "a Gentleman of Fortune." All this scarcity comes of educating people, and the march of intellect, and the rage for improvements! Did you ever hear such nonsense? Why, I suppose civilization will be taking such rapid strides that the wood pavement—(I hope you have got one in your place; the bit of wood in the Strand lit my fires for two winters running: what a field it was for accidents, to be sure! I used to pick up two a day)—will be cut eventually from under our feet, and we shan't have a bit of orange-peel, or a slide even, to stand upon, or as much as a drop of prussic-acid to warm our hearts with before going to bed of a cold night. It's all a mistake; and if I am a victim to it I shall lay my death at the door of civilization, and charge them with it. Why, the cabs are nothing to what they used to be—they wont upset; and I do really believe the omnibus conductors are getting civil, merely to spite us. The lightning conductors, too, are very little better. I haven't been able to drink your health in a drop of electric fluid for many a day. Where it will end none of us can tell. The steamers have done a little for business, it's true, and I expect they will do a great deal more for us; but what, I ask you, is a Cricket amongst so many? Besides, one doesn't get such a good blow-out every day. Education, I see, will be the ruin of us all. I have serious thoughts of turning an informer, and reporting my own cases; or, if it comes to the worst, of going over to Dublin, and stopping there patiently till the row at Conciliation Hall begins. I wish it would take place to-morrow! They are a long time about it for Irishmen; for the winter is coming on, and I must give up all thoughts of coals, unless I get a good Destructive Fire or two. Candles, too, come dear when you cannot find, search where you will, the smallest bit of Seasonable Benevolence to pay for them. There's only Railways left us. Do you know, I drink the health of that dear Eastern Counties every time I am lucky enough to get an Awful Accident out of it. Why, Tom, my boy, I was only thinking this morning, as I was leaning over London Bridge, hoping an ill wind would blow me something good, that I would start a railway, and so make my own Accidents, and write them, for greater accuracy, on the spot. I might contract with the different papers to supply them cheap all the year round. But then I recollected, and a burning tear bedewed my eye, that that line of luck was all over, that the poor stags were fairly run off their legs, and that an end had been put for ever to Capel Court. Twelve months sooner, and the thing might have been done. I only wish I was in Hudson's shoes, that's all. What a deal of money I would make, 'lining—wouldn't I, just!
Well, Tom, I must leave you. The neighborhood has just been thrown into the greatest consternation by an "Enormous Gooseberry." I run to measure it with an India-rubber band, for that stretches the best. I hope it is a crammer; at all events I must make it large enough to serve me for dinner, and leave me something to fill my pipe with afterwards. Good-bye, Tom. I hope Liverpool (you lucky fellow, you had the Fever all last winter; you ought to have made your fortune, too, with the Irish) is better off in Accidents—it is much richer I know in Fires—than London. If not, I will make this agreement with you: you shall have my Inhuman Neglect by the Parish Authorities, if you bequeath me your Awful Death by Starvation. Is that a bargain?
I remain, my dear Tom,
In a state much better conceived than described,
Yours regularly "in a line,"
A. Chance.
The Ether's a failure; not a single explosion worth having. Can't you send me up a Shower of Frogs in your next letter? You shall have an Infamous Hoax by return. I say, the American Sea-serpent has not had a turn lately, or the Oldest Inhabitant, and, entre nous, Lord B—h—m has not been killed once these seven years; I have got his Life all ready. I will toss you for him, if you like. What do you say? Two out of three? or Sudden Death?
Young Flimsy was complaining at the Blue Bottle last night of the pressure of the Times. He said he had a most "Wonderful Appetite" on Thursday, and invited half-a-dozen "liners" to supper on the strength of it, but the Currency deprived him of every penny, notwithstanding he had a Curious Case of Instinct, which he made sure would bring him in half-a-crown.
Address to me at the Illustrated Weekly Murder Sheet Office.
ILLUSTRATED CONUNDRUM.
(THE OLDEST ON RECORD.)
Question.—W
is a
a
Answer.—W
it is A
