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                                  THE

                            COMIC ALMANACK.

                         1ST SERIES, 1835-1843.




                               _NOTICE._


A SECOND SERIES of "_THE COMIC ALMANACK_," embracing the years 1844—53,
a ten years' gathering of the BEST HUMOUR, the WITTIEST SAYINGS, the
Drollest Quips, and the Best Things of THACKERAY, MAYHEW, ALBERT SMITH,
A'BECKETT, ROBERT BROUGH, with nearly one thousand Woodcuts and Steel
Engravings by the inimitable CRUIKSHANK, HINE, LANDELLS—

     may also be had of the Publishers of this volume, and uniform
              with it, nearly 600 pages, price 7_s._ 6_d._

[Illustration:

  The Cold Water Cure
]




                                  THE
                             COMIC ALMANACK
              AN EPHEMERIS IN JEST AND EARNEST, CONTAINING
                     MERRY TALES, HUMOROUS POETRY,
                          QUIPS, AND ODDITIES.


                                   BY

              THACKERAY, ALBERT SMITH, GILBERT A. BECKETT,
                          THE BROTHERS MAYHEW.

[Illustration:

  "FULL INSIDE, SIR, BUT PLENTY OF ROOM ON THE ROOF."
]

                   =With many Hundred Illustrations=

                          BY GEORGE CRUIKSHANK

                           AND OTHER ARTISTS.

                       _FIRST SERIES, 1835-1843._

                               =London:=

                     CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY.




                                CONTENTS


                      NOTICE
                      PRELIMINARY
                      THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1835.
                      THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1836.
                      THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1837.
                      THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1838.
                      THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1839.
                      THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1840.
                      THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1841.
                      THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1842.
                      THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1843.




                              PRELIMINARY


THE "Comic Almanacks" of George Cruikshank have long been regarded by
admirers of this inimitable artist as among his finest, most
characteristic productions. Extending over a period of nineteen years,
from 1835 to 1853, inclusive, they embrace the best period of his
artistic career, and show the varied excellences of his marvellous
power.

The late Mr. Tilt, of Fleet Street, first conceived the idea of the
"Comic Almanack," and at various times there were engaged upon it such
writers as Thackeray, Albert Smith, the Brothers Mayhew, the late Robert
Brough, Gilbert A'Beckett, and it has been asserted, Tom Hood, the
elder. Thackeray's stories of "Stubbs' Calendar, or the Fatal Boots,"
which subsequently appeared as "Stubbs' Diary;" and "Barber Cox, or the
Cutting of his Comb," formed the leading attractions in the numbers for
1839 and 1840. The Almanack was published at 2_s._ 6_d._, but in 1848-9
the size was reduced and the price altered to 1_s._ The change did not
produce the increased circulation expected, and in 1850 it was again
enlarged and published at 2_s._ 6_d._ In this year some very spiritedly
designed folding plates were added, and this feature continued until
1853, when Mr. Tilt's partner, the late Mr. Bogue, thought proper to
discontinue the work.

For many years past, sets of the Almanack have been eagerly sought after
by collectors, and as much as 6_l._ and 7_l._ have been given for good
copies.




                                  THE
                             COMIC ALMANACK
                               FOR 1835.


                               PRELUDIUM.

  SCENE.—_An Apartment in the House of_ FRANCIS MOORE, _in which that
    renowned Physician and Astrologer is discovered, lying at the
    point of death_. _The_ NURSE _is holding up his head, while a
    skilful_ MEDICINER _is dispensing a potion_. _Sundry_ OLD WOMEN
    _surround his couch, in an agony of grief_. _The_ ASTROLOGER
    _starteth up in a paroxysm of rage_.

   _Moore._ "Throw physic to the dogs," I'll gulp no more.
   I'm done for: my prophetic life is o'er.
   Who are these hags? and wherefore come they here?

   _Old Women._ Alack! he raves, and knows us not, poor dear!
   To think he should his _only friends_ forget!
   Who've fostered him, and made him quite a pet.

   _Moore._ Begone, ye beldames! wherefore do ye howl?

   _Old Women._ We've come to comfort your unhappy sowl.

   _Nurse._ 'Tis the Old Women,—pr'ythee, do not scare 'em,—
   Who to the last have bought your VOX STELLARUM;
   They're sorely griev'd, and fear that you will die;
   And then, alack-a-day! who'll read the sky?

   _Moore._ Oh, ah!—yes—well,—just so—just so,
   I see—I feel—I smell—I know—I know.

   _Nurse._ Poor soul! he's going fast. Oh! shocking shock!
   So kind a master.... Bless me! there's a knock!

           _Enter_ RIGDUM FUNNIDOS, _in deep mourning_.

   _Rig. Fun._ "Ye black and midnight hags! what is't ye do?"

   _Nurse._ Speak softly, Sir; my master's turning blue.
   He's not been sensible since last November.

   _Rig. Fun._ (_aside_) Nor ever was, that I can e'er remember.
   But we must talk before his course is run.

   _Moore._ Who's that?—my sight grows dim—Is't RIGDUM FUN?

   _Rig. Fun._ The same, great MOORE!

   _Moore._ But, bless me! all in black!
   What! mourn a _living_ man! Alack! alack!

   _Rig. Fun._ I wear _prospective_ mourning, thus to shew
   The solemn grandeur of _prophetic woe_.

   _Moore._ The thought is _lively_, though the subject's _grave_;
   And, therefore, you my free forgiveness have.

   _Rig. Fun._ How can I serve you, ere you vanish hence?

   _Moore._ I wish you'd cut the throat of COMMON SENSE.
   To him I owe my death. That cruel wight
   Long on my hopes has cast a fatal blight.
   I knew I had receiv'd the mortal blow,
   When first he wounded me, six years ago;
   And every year the knave has stronger grown,
   While ev'ry year has sunk me lower down.

   _Rig. Fun._ I will avenge you;—nay, I'll go much further:
   The "Crowner's quest" shall find him guilty "Murther."
   The common hangman shall cut short his breath;
   And, by a shameful end, avenge _your_ death.

   _Moore._ 'Tis kindly said; and I in peace shall die.
   Say, is there aught that _you_ would ask of _I_?

   _Rig. Fun._ Oh, FRANCIS MOORE! who soon _no_ MORE wilt be;
   I came, a precious boon to beg of thee:—
     One gracious favour, ere you breathe your last,—
   _On_ ME _your Prophet's mantle deign to cast!_
   Let _me_ be raised to your deserted throne,
   And call your countless subjects all my own.
   Then let the mirth, they levell'd once at thee,
   Fall, if it will, with tenfold force on me.
   If all will laugh at _me_, who laugh'd at _you_,
   The frowns of fortune I no more shall rue;
   Nay, with such temper would I bear their jeers,
   I could endure them for a hundred years.

   _Moore._ Life's ebbing fast; my sands are nearly run;
   But you shall have what you request, my son!
   Now, sit you down, and write what I shall say,—
   The last bright glimmerings of the taper's ray.
   I'll shew you how to pen those strains so well,
   Of which the meaning no one e'er could tell.
   Send forth the women;—draw a little nigher;
   My brain is heating with prophetic fire.

   _Rig. Fun._ Matrons, abscond! (_They depart glumpishly; carrying
   off the Mediciner._) Now, Dad, I'm all attention,
   To learn the wisdom that's past comprehension.

   _Moore._ "The fiery Mars with furious fury rages."

   _Rig. Fun._ I've penn'd that down, most erudite of sages!

   _Moore._ "The Dog-star kindles with inflaming ire."

   _Rig. Fun._ Just wait a moment, while I stir the fire.

   _Moore._ "