The Sun. — 1834-11-07 (London, England)

LITERATURE.  THE COMIC ALMANACK FOR 1835. C. Tilt. London, 1835. We shall be surprised if this clever little work do not succeed. It is a smart, pointed jeux d'esprit, full of all sorts of predictions, as humourous as old Cobbctts', and as likely to be realized as old Moore's. Each month has its peculiarities catalogued with whimsical minuteness, and its weather prognosticated in that ingenious and dubious style which an expert politician makes use of, when, without committing himself, he  wishes to be thought to say something very emphatic and unequivocal on some great popular question. Thus our astrologer (Rigdum Funnidos, Esq.), in speculating on January, says of it,  " Weather likely to be cold If the frost is very old; If no snow should chance to fall, Then perhaps no snow at all," a prediction not less remarkable for its discreetness  than its sagacity ; the word " perhaps" in particular, is as fine a sample of the " saving-clause" as we ever met with, even in the speeches of a politician who has his fortune to make. Of February we are told : " Rain or hail, or snow or sleet In this month you're sure to meet ; Perhaps there won't be one nor t'other, Why then 'twill happen in some other." It is the highest effort of human ingenuity so to predict results, that let them turn out which way they will, you are sure to be right. How admirably is this effected in the above passage 1 First, we are positively  assured that there will be either rain or hail, or snow or sleet—which, it will be observed, embrace all the  forms and varieties in which the element of water can possibly develope itself—in February ; but then, as if even this prophecy were too positive, the astrologer delicately backs out of it by the qualifying declaration, that if these phenomena do not take place in the second month of the year, they will most probably in one or other of the twelve months. That must be a most ingenious February, that can falsify such a prognostication as this March is introduced to our notice as follows :  " I fear I am a sinner lost, For often do I pray, That I could read in Times or Post The death of Lady-day." The death of Lady-day ! What a natural wisl Where is the man who has not a thousand times wished the same ? And no wonder, for so utterly offensive is this day, (the 25th we believe) to the sensibilities of that unhappy portion of the community who come under the denomination of " rent-payers," that, by way of rendering it endurable, it has been found expedient to baptize it by the magic appellative of " Lady." Shame that the holy name 9f the divinest part of the creation should be prostituted to such a purpose ! The embellishments to the Comic Altnanack are twelve—one for each month—and all are by Cruickshank. The one which illustrates " March," represents various groupes, male and female, seriously incommoded by a north-easter. The scene is the corner of a street, where this crafty, crocodile wind—as Lord Castlereagh would have called it—always makes a point of lying in wait for the unprepared pedestrian. Two elderly gentlemen have just spiked each other with their umbrellas ; the eldest has lost his hat, which has taken a a fancy to rise in the world ; and the younger, who feels his also on the move, has clutched it fast in his hand ; but by so doing, has reduced his parapluie to the disagreeable necessity of turning inside out. Close behind them stands a spacious, agreeable-looking lady, busily engaged in reducing to order the folds of a most refractory and tempestuous petticoat, which, however, despite all her efforts, persists in displaying the full proportions of a leg, that modesty would fain hide, inasmuch as it is as thick round the ankle as the calf. The predicament of this poor gentlewoman is most distressing, for she has evidently just caught a glimpse of a slim dandy, criticising her understandings.through an eye-glass. The fat man in the back-ground, who has made up his mind, that let the wind blow its worst, he at least cannot be blown away, is an irresistible touch of the philosophic. " May" is represented by the street vagaries of the chimney-sweeps, all of whom are tipsy, except the Jack in the Green, who is what may be called, specially drunk. The very grouping of these figures, to say nothing of their faces—on which mud and dirt rest with all the becoming propriety of nature—is in itself a joke. " June" hits off the So• merset House Exhibition, which is crowded by visitors, all more or less in a state " of grievous dissolution and thaw." We feel, in particular, for the poor clergy. man, who, though he came in as fat as a rector, bids fair to go out as lean as a curate. There is an air of meek, helpless resignation about this Gent, highlybecoming in a Christian Minister. He sees that he must dissolve, so welcomes dissolution with a smile. " July" introduces us to Vauxhall, and its unrivalled ornament, Mr. Simpson, on whom hundreds of lovely ladies are gazing, with an admiration which, though we may envy, we cannot wonder at. The running waiter in the foreground, with a napkin under his arm, and a tray of sandwiches in his hand, is a happy illustration of the perpetual motion. " September " places before us all the glories of Bartholomew Fair, against which it may be remembered, the Rev. Mr. Dillon, author of the " Lord Mayor's Voyage to Oxford," once preached a sermon, wherein he introduced a truant servant maid in the act of " cutting away the anchor of her virginity "—a touching description, which from its evident truth and sincerity, bore all the appearance of having been drawn from life. As lovers of physiology, we must confess, we should like to have witnessed such an occurrence. " November," as it should be, is represented by .a long, dark, dingy street, the very houses of which look hypochondriacal, and along which some ten or dozen people are pacing, exhibiting in their countenances all the varieties of wretchedness. That spindle-shanked gentleman in the corner, is evidently meditating suicide ; and it is equally evident, that the old maid under the gas-light is far gone in a fit of the vapours. We have no space for the other embellishments ; but they are all worthy of George.