The Sun.
London, England, 1846-12-04 00:00:00

LITERATURE

THE COMIC A LMANACK FOR 1847.
By George Cruikshank.
Fascetious as have been the preceding numbers of
this little publication, this is unquestionably the most
fascetious within our recollection. The illustrations
by the inimitable George Cruikshank are, with two
exceptions, as rich in humour as any that ever pro-
ceeded from his etching-needle. One of the funniest
notions this humourous draughtsman ever had is that
embodied in the plate entitled " I dreamt that I slept
at Madame Tussaud's." The comicality of the thing
is actually extravagant. To every hypocondriac who
is addicted to drugging himself with quack medicine
we commend the engraving of the " Sick Goose and
the Council of Health," and to every wife who
disdains being a housewife as an ignoble way of
exercising her abilities, we commend the one
inscribed "My wife is a woman of mind." It is the
realisation of the domestic miseries hinted at by Lord
Byron in that Hudibrastic couplet—
" And 0 ye Lords of Ladies intellectual,
Inform us tru/y have they not hen-pecht you-all."
When we observe that the motley disguise of " Rig-
dum Funnidos" is this year cast upon the shoulders
of Mr. Henry Mayhew, the original projector of
" Punch," we have uttered a guarantee that the lite-
rary portion of the almanack is under able editorship.
As a specimen of the outrageous drollery of the
letter-press, here is the commencement of a parody
upon the sublime " Ossian" of James Macpherson.
" Bring, daughter of the Rainbow! bring me the pen
of steel! The mountain dew sparkles in Ossian's brain,
and it is brilliant with song. As is the black reviver to
the garment whose seams are white with age, so is the
cream of the valley to the seedy soul of the bard. It
brings back the freshness of youth.
" A tale of high life! The deeds of the superior
classes!
" The draught of the waters of Kinnahan wakens the
memory of the past. The odour of thy weeds, mild
Lopez! is pleasant in Ossian's nose. Like the brow of
Ben-Primrose, his head is veiled in clouds. Listen, thou
daughter of the Rainbow! to the deeds of the superior
classes.
" A tale of high life!
" Fair is thy Garden, 0 Covent! Green are its paths
with the leaves of the cabbage. There the cauliflower of
Fulham rests its white head, and the pine of Jamaica
perfumes the breeze. The daughters of Erin ale there
laden with Pippins of gold. Near are the halls of Evans.
Music is heard in them by night. The morning dawns
in song. The voice of Llewellyn of Wales gladdens the
feast ; and Sloman, the son of Israel. pours forth his
numbers, apt as the bard of Moses. Glad are the halls
of Evans ! It is the abode of Joy !
"Wilt thou not listen, bright maid of the Rainbow! to
the voice of Ossian ! my soul is bursting with song.
The collars of my Corazza droop like the ears of the
Greyhound, and my eye in a fine phrensy rolls. Thus
the mighty Bunn appears when he dreams that he dwells
in marble halls. Dost thou not behold, bright maid !
the head of a lion in Ossians hand ? A ring of iron
depends from its mouth, and its face wears a look of
rage. That head the noble Phlaruppe, Lord of Belgra-
via, tore away. Phlaruppe tore it away by the strength
of his arm. Listen, then, daughter of the Rainbow ! to
the tale of high life ! The deeds of the superior classes.
" What sound is that kisses the ear I Across thy
Garden, sweet Covent I It comes dancing along the
breeze. Can it be the song of the lark climbing the
sky ? But the lark wakes not the night with his notes;
and bright burns the gas in the lamp of the Tavistock.
'Tis the voice of Von Joel, the toothlesso gladdening the
halls of Evans. Of Evans, the son of Thespis.
"The Thespian son sits in his hall of state. The feast
is spread around. The strong waters of Hodges and
Betts sparkle on the beard. A thousand Havannahs
perfume the air. A thousand glittering tankards foam
with the nectar of Barclay. There is the ripe fruit of
Erin, and the rabbit of Wales is there.
" Who comes from the Saloons of the West, with his
warriors around him ? He smokes the Dodeen of peace.
His face glows with the juice of the Gooseberry. His
cheeks are red as the garments of the bearers of letters
on the festival of May ? Who is it but the noble Phlar-
uppe, the Lord of Belgravia, In his train is Sutton the
Sambo ; and Burke, the hard of hearing, attends him.
Mighty in battle are they !
" The lord of Belgravia graces the board ; the Bards
hail his presence with a song. He quaffs the brown
stout of Dublin. The night reels away in revelry. The
morning peeps in at the casement ; and Phlaruppe, the
Lord of Belgravia, is glorious with Guinness's.
"A tale of high life ! the deeds of the superior classes."
The two following Duans are descriptive of
a freak of the Marquis of Waterford under the eupho-
nious soubriquet of " Phlaruppe." It would, how-
ever, be scarcely fair to encroach further upon the
pages of the Comic Almanack. If ever the almanack
deserved that attractive adjective, it does now. Both
the pencil of the artist, and the pen of the editor have
laboured most successfully to evoke merriment from
the most unexpected and unconscionable themes.
The pages are crowded with words and physiognomies
which will elicit much hearty laughter.

NEW YEAR'S DAY.—A WINTER'S TALE.
By Mrs. Gore.
In place of the ephemeral volumes, the sentimental
contents of which suited well with their silken ex-

terior—the " Amulets" and " Gems," and " Rubies"
which were wont to celebrate this season of the
year, a number of little works are now making their
appearance, which more truly merit the title of
" Christmas Annuals." Following in the wake of
the ever-memorable " Carol," they seek to illustrate
the genial nature of this festive season, not by the
gorgeous character of their outward adornments,
but by the warm and kindly sentiments which glow
within them. And this is as it should be, for (to
borrow from a comparison of Jeremy Taylor's) as
those creatures which live among the snow are
white, and so should all Christmas books have
about them the characteristics of Christmas. They
should inculcate lessons of brotherly' kindness, they
should tend to undermine selfishness and pride, they
should stimulate benevolence and charity—not caring
to please the fancy or instruct the mind—their aim
should rather be to touch the heart, to infuse into it
kind and generous sentiments—breathing the very
spirit of sympathy and love. Such are the qualities
which should distinguish a Christmas book, such are
the qualities which have gained for Mr. Dickens
Christmas works such deserved and universal appro-
bation ; and it is inasmuch as they possess these or
similar qualities that we gladly welcome such little
volumes as the one before us. Much as we
dislike imitators, yet we welcome them, for
we are disposed to regard them, not as imi-
tators, but rather as followers (though at a
distance) of a good example—as fellow-labourers
(though in a humbler capacity) in the same good
work. And foremost among these volumes, we are
glad to find one from Mrs. Gore; in the first place,
because her name and talents will render the book

self more attractive, and its object more effectual;
and, secondly, we are delighted that this distinguished
authoress has exerted her very considerable abilities
,is
for so benevolent a purpose. " New Year's Day
a very simple tale, simply told, but this very simplicity
is in many places full of beauty and pathos. Though
the compliment may be somewhat questionable, there
are some pages in this volume which we could hardly
have believed written by Mrs. Gore, accustomed
as we are to her severe and satirical remarks, and to
the despicable and unnatural characters which she oc-
casionally introduces to our notice. A very excellent
moral is conveyed in this "Winter's Tale ;" besides
forcibly illustrating the awful distinctions of rich and
poor, it exposes the sad effects of ungovernable
passion—these two objects are very adroitly inter-
woven. One of the principal characters, the haughty
and impetuous Sir Jasper, whose naturally good
heart is unable to neutralise the effects of his impe-
rious temper, had, from his ill-treatment, caused his
only son to desert hii home. Years afterwards that
son (supposed to be dead), returning from America,
with his own young child to seek his father's house,
is shipwrecked and drowned, while his boy,
escaping from the catastrophe, is thrown al-
most friendless, and with scarcely a clue to
his parentage, upon the unsympathising world
of London. At the opening of the story he is knocked
down by his wealthy grandfather's splendid carriage,
and here and in many other places throughout the
tale the contrast between rich and poor is made the
more apparent by the fact of the individual repre-
sentatives of the two classes eing in reality members
of the same family—the poor starving child, the heir
of the wealthy baronet. We,will not further disclose •