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III. Grey Dolphin
III. The Chase and the Forecastle Yarn
Portrait of George Colman
Frontispiece Handy Andy, No. I. by S. Lover
Page 20 Procession at the Inauguration of Mr. Tulrumble as Mayor of
Mudfog, by George Cruikshank Who are you? by S. Lover
88 Oliver Twist, by George Cruikshank
105 Handy Andy, No. II. by S. Lover
169 Spectre of Tappington, by Buss
191 Oliver Twist, No. II. by George Cruikshank
218 Portrait of Samuel Foote, by Sir Joshua Reynolds
298 The Little Bit of Tape, by Phiz
313 Oliver Twist, No. III. by George Cruikshank
326 Portrait of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, by Ozias Humphreys Oliver Twist, No. IV. by George Cruikshank
430 Nights at Sea, by George Cruikshank
474 The Romance of a Day, by George Cruikshank
565 Nights at Sea, by George Cruikshank
OUR SONG OF THE MONTH.
No. I. January, 1837.
The Bottle Of St. JANUARIUS.
In the land of the citron and myrtle, we're told
That the blood of a martyr is kept in a phial, Which, though all the year round, it lie torpid and cold,
Yet grasp but the crystal, 'twill warm the first trial... Be it fiction or truth, with your
favourite FACT, O, profound LAZZARONI! I seek not to quarrel ; But indulge an old priest who would simply extract
From your legend, a lay-from your martyr, a moral.
Lo! with icicled beard JANUARIUS comes !
And the blood in his veins is all frozen and gelid, And he beareth a bottle; but TORPOR benumbs
Every limb of the saint :-Would ye wish to dispel it? With the hand of good-fellowship grasp the hoar sage-
Soon his joints will relax and his pulse will beat quicker ; Grasp the bottle he brings—’twill grow warm, I 'll engage,
Till the frost of each heart lies dissolved in the LIQUOR!
WATER-GRASS-HILL, kal. Januarii.
For us, and our Miscellany,
SILAKSPEARE, with a difference.
“ Doctor,” said a young gentleman to Dean Swift, “ I intend to set up for a wit.”
“ Then,” said the Doctor, “ I advise you to sit down again.”
The anecdote is unratified by a name, for the young gentleman continues to the present day to be anonymous, as he will, in all probability, continue to future time; and as for Dean Swift, his name, being merely that of a wit by profession, goes for nothing. We apprehend that the tale is not much better than what is to be read in the pages of Joe Miller.
But, supposing it true,-and the joke is quite bad enough to be authentic-we must put in our plea that it is not to apply to us. The fact is absolutely undeniable that we originally advertised ourselves or rather our work as, the “Wits' Miscellany," -thereby indicating, beyond all doubt, that we of the Miscellany were Wits. It is our firm hope that the public, which is in general a most tender-hearted individual, will not give us a rebuff similar to that which the unnamed young gentleman experienced at the hands, or the tongue, of the implacable Dean of St. Patrick
It has been frequently remarked,-and indeed we have more than fifty times experienced the fact ourselves,—that of all the stupid dinner-parties, by far the stupidest is that at which the cleverest men in all the world do congregate. A single lion is a pleasant show: he wags his tail in proper order; his teeth are displayed in due course; his hide is systematically admired, and his mane fitly appreciated. If he roars, good ! — if he aggravates his voice to the note of a sucking-dove, better! All look on in the appropriate mood of delight, as Theseus and Hippolita, enraptured at the dramatic performance of Snug the Joiner. But when there comes a menagerie of lions, the case is altered. Too much familiarity, as the lawyers say in their peculiar jargon, begets contempt. We recollect, many years ago, when some ingenious artist in Paris proposed to make Brussels lace or blonde by machinery at the rate of a sou per ell, to have congratulated a lady of our acquaintance on this important