The Minister's Fate; from "Recollections of H. T." Procession at the Inauguration of Mr. Tulrumble as Mayor of Nights at Sea, by George Cruikshank The Romance of a Day, by George Cruikshank 474 565 621 BENTLEY'S MISCELLANY. OUR SONG OF THE MONTH. No. I. January, 1837. THE BOTTLE OF ST. JANUARIUS. I. In the land of the citron and myrtle, we 're told That the blood of a MARTYR is kept in a phial, O, profound LAZZARONI! I seek not to quarrel; But indulge an old priest who would simply extract II. Lo! with icicled beard JANUARIUS comes ! And the blood in his veins is all frozen and gelid, Every limb of the saint:-Would ye wish to dispel it? Probatum est. WATER-GRASS-HILL, Kal. Januarii. P. PROUT. B PROLOGUE. For us, and our Miscellany, SHAKSPEARE, with a difference. "DOCTOR," said a young gentleman to Dean Swift, "I intend to set up for a wit." 66 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 saving in the main expenditure of the fair sex. "You will have," said we, “a cap which now costs four hundred francs for less than fifty. Think of that!" 66 "Think of that!" said the countess, casting upon us the darkest expression of indignation that her glowing eyes [and what eyes they were!-but no matter] could let loose,-" think of that, indeed! Do you think that I should ever wear such rags as are to be bought for fifty francs ?" There was no arguing the matter: it was useless to say that the fifty-franc article, if the plan had succeeded, (which, however, it did not,) would have been precisely and in every thread the same as that set down at five hundred. The crowd of fine things generated by cheapness, in general, was quite enough to dim the finery of any portion of them in particular. We are much afraid that we run somewhat loose of our original design in these rambling remarks. But it is always easy to come back to the starting-post. Abandoning metaphor and figure of all kinds, we were endeavouring to express our conviction, drawn from experience, that a company of professed wits might be justly suspected to be a dull concern. Every man is on the alert to guard against surprise. Through all the seven courses laid down, The wit dreads the punster's renown, The buffoon tries the mimic to smother: He who shines in the sharp repartee Envies him who can yarn a droll story; Will think your adagio but snory. This is, we admit at once, and in anticipation of the reader's already expressed opinion, a very poor imitation of the opening song of the Beggar's Opera. If this melancholy fact of the stupidity of congregated wits be admitted to be true, the question comes irresistibly, thrown in our faces in the very language of the street, "Who are you? Have not you advertised yourselves as wits, and can you escape from the soft-headed impeachment ?" We reply nothing; we stand mute. It will be our time this day twelvemonths to offer to the pensive public a satisfactory replication to that somewhat personal interrogatory. Yet Having in our minds, and the interior sensoria of our consciences, some portion of modesty yet lingering behind-how small that portion may be is best known to those who have campaigned for a few years upon the press, and thence learned the diffident mildness which naturally adheres to the pursuit of enlightening the public mind, and advancing the march of general intellect ;-possessed, we say, of that quantity of retiring bashful |