_March 21, 1834._—Mrs. G. bent on a rural retirement, and declaring this
a dog-cheap bargain,—meet Mr. Grabbit to-morrow, pay premium, and take
lease of his snug place at Strand-on-the-Green.—Wife insists on calling
it Cherub Lodge, Paradise Bank.—N.B. Original sum, £600; Grabbit seeming
to like us, abates a hundred entirely as a favour.
27th.—All safe arrived: only one pier-glass split into four, and best
tea-set, bought as 32 pieces, converted into 32 dozen. However, Mrs. G.
observes, that being by the river side, we must have a marine grotto,
and the pieces of looking-glass, mixed with the bits of blue and gold
china, will make a fine glitter among the moss and shells.
28th.—Grabbit recommends Isaac Snail as head gardener, and his son Isaac
to help him—says old Isaac was his right hand, and begged to be left in
the house, he was so attached to the garden.
31st.—Two days' rain, without ceasing; planning with Isaac on the large
kitchen table covered an inch thick with mould—laid down gravel walks of
red garter, and stuck up skewers for fruit trees.
_April 1._—Rain falling, river rising, cellars filling.
2nd.—Ducks swimming into the parlour—moved to the first floor for
safety—Musical Tom (my youngest) splashing about bare-legged in the
kitchen, and shouting "four feet water in the hold." A leak sprung in
the next onion field—all my land under water. Dick, perched on
window-sill, angling for roach in the garden. Isaac says we shall get
used to it, and the waters always go off again. Daughter Julia tells me
the people of Egypt would think it quite a blessing—beg to differ.
7th.—Can just see land.—House left rather slimy.—Isaac and I commence
gardening in earnest.—Distrained on for forty odd pounds, taxes left
unpaid by Mr. Grabbit.—To keep my goods, parted with the money, and
started to town for an explanation—found Grabbit sailed last week for
Swan River. Isaac says he was a worthy gentleman, but had a bad memory—
begin to be of the same opinion.
9th.—Buried an old hen at the foot of a plum-tree by the light of the
full moon—am told it will then bear egg-plums.
19th.—Potato eyes always an eye-sore, so have planted a bed with every
eye nicely cut away, by which I hope to grow a crop as smooth as my hand
and as blind as moles.—Look for the Horticultural Society's gold medal
for this bright idea.
27th.—Wondered my ranunculuses did not come up; just tried one, found I
had planted them all bottom topmost, and they were shooting away down to
what Dick says is the centre of gravity.
_May_ 3.—Grubbing for grubs among the rose-trees—cucumbers in full
flower—Mrs. Giblet and Julia come to help me—all busy setting the
blossoms—puzzled to tell the male flowers, till Mrs. G. discovered it
all by the book.
12th.—Tulips splendid yesterday, but flagged this morning; and after
dinner all napping with their heads on the bed—Isaac said it was the
east wind. Thought there might be a grub at the roots, so drew one up—
found no bulb—all the rest the same—somebody had taken away the roots
and stuck the flowers into the ground again.
13th.—Finished my new hot-water pipes for the conservatory, all heated
by the kitchen fire—a scheme of my own—Cook had a regular flare-up with
so much company yesterday, so the water was boiling hot all day—by night
the plants looked like scalded goose-berries. This morning, all my pipes
united in a _joint-run_ on the cistern, which answered their draughts to
the last, and the spare water from the green-house floor was soaking
into the breakfast parlour. The inventor just arrived—says it's all
quite regular—the cracked joints will close of themselves in time—I
wonder when.
23rd.—Wrote to the editor of The Gardener's Journal an account of my
plan for growing potatoes without eyes, and the experiments for making
an egg-plum tree.
_June_ 2.—Vines cut last month, all bled to death.—Surprised that my new
potatoes without eyes have not seen daylight yet.—My letter to the
magazine in print.—Encouraging notice by editor, "Thanks S. G. for
communicating his ingenious discoveries; hopes to hear from him again,
with samples of the new potato and egg-plum." Think I shall disclose
myself, and name the new sort, the Cherub Giblet potato. Most of the
neighbours spoke to me coming out of church yesterday, but little
thought who S. G. was.
12th.—Suppose I want exercise.—Wife blows me up, and says I get puffy;
so, to keep all smooth with her and the garden walks, drag the great
roller about for two hours, morning and night.
19th.—Insects in green-house devouring all my new plants; searched book
for a remedy, and last night popped in a pan of burning brimstone. This
morning all the grubs shrivelled to shreds, and every plant dead and
stripped as naked as a plucked chicken. Tom begs to have the green-house
to keep his pigeons in.
23rd.—Fill up odd time in watching fruit trees with a rattle, for the
birds perch on the sham cats and build nests in the mawkins. What with
opening and shutting the cucumber-frames, according to the sun, wind,
and clouds, plenty to do.—Charged the garden-engine with lime water—set
Dick and Tom to play upon the caterpillars. They have so whitewashed the
three Miss Blackets, that I have two velvet bonnets, a silk pelisse, and
a cashmere shawl to pay for.
_July_ 3.—Tool-house robbed last night; all cleared out but the garden
roller. Isaac's list for a new outfit—spades, forks, dibbers, trowels,
traces, hoes, rakes, weeders, scrapers, knives, pruners, axes, saws,
shears, scythes, hammers, pincers, lines, levels, sieves, watering-pots,
syringes,—he would have gone on, but I stopped him.
9th.—Set nooses for wild rabbits, which are devouring everything green,
even the bays. This morning found we had strangled Dick's lop-eared doe.
Tom, who is learning to joke, observed that she had wandered for a
change of food, and had found a _halter_-ation.
18th.—The Cherub Giblet potatoes not coming up to time, tried the ground
and found them rotting—all gone off without a single shoot.—Mem. To
forget them in my next to The Gardener's Journal.
24th.—Half my time taken up in driving the butterflies off the
gooseberry trees. Left my weeding-gloves stuck on a stick last night—put
them on this morning, and smashed five slugs in one, and seven earwigs
in the other.—Mem. Old gloves the best slug-trap.
_August_ 5.—My cucumber frames yield plenty of fruit—have gathered not
less than twenty, worth twopence each—cost me only five pounds six
shillings and sevenpence.
9th.—Strolled into shrubbery this evening with a lanthorn, for the
pleasure of viewing things in a new light—up started two figures from
among the bushes, tumbled me, lanthorn, and all, into a bed of roses,
and escaped. Mem. 'Stablish a spring gun to-morrow.
15th.—Wall-fruit ripening—must have a few friends while there is
something for them—fresh-gathered peaches always a treat.
19th.—Up at six to look after the fruit—all hope of a dessert had
deserted my walls—every ripe plum, peach and nectarine, clean gone, as
though the rogues knew that I had asked ten to dinner. Said nothing, but
sent off Isaac to Covent Garden. Obliged to do it liberally, having
unfortunately been boasting. Looked in book for best man-trap—found it
called the humane, because it only breaks the leg. Mem. Set up a
man-trap to-morrow.
25th.—My egg-plums ripe at last—sent off a loaded branch to my
correspondent the editor—Letter of thanks in return, saying that my tree
would have produced egg-plums whether I had buried the old hen or not.—
Envious, no doubt.
_September_ 2.—Terrible outcry in the garden, this morning, before I was
up—ran down in my shirt—unlucky Dick had stolen a march on the egg-plum
tree for a private regale. Branch broke—there he was on his back,
kicking—hives upset—could not see Dick for bees—got help and rescued him
at last—all stung a little—Dick poulticed from head to foot, and laid up
for a month at least. Isaac says it is a thousand pities, as the honey
was almost ready for taking.
18th.—Went to the Bank to-day—lot of garden tools at old iron-shop in
the City Road—very cheap and ready marked S. G., so bought and
despatched them home—looked up, and saw "Jacob Snail" over door—thought
it rather suspicious.
19th.—Could not sleep for thinking of Isaac and the tools—bright
moonlight at two—looked through the window—something moving on the
garden wall—saw two men among the bees—seized my musket—called Harry to
follow me—crept down through the shrubs, and there was old Isaac, plain
enough, tying the hives in sacks and handing them to young Isaac on the
wall—made sure of the old fox, so fired at the young one; down he fell
into the ditch outside. Sprung forward, forgetting the spring gun,
caught the wire and all the shot in my legs—never made such a jump in my
life—took me plump, head and shoulders, into the man-trap. There I was
locked fast across the chest. How I blessed myself that it was a humane
man-trap!—Old Isaac escaped.—Here I am in bed and likely to be lame for
life—plenty of time for reflection—begin to think myself an ass.
23rd.—Old Isaac not to be found—tracked the young fox—brought him to
confession—both been plundering me every night from the beginning. Old
Isaac stole my tools, and his brother sold them to me again. Young Isaac
stole my tulips—together they stole my peaches and nectarines the night
before my party, and the old knave, when I sent him to town for more,
fetched my own from his cottage, and charged me with them.
25th.—A notice to-day, by which I learn that I have been imposed on by a
swindling knave who had no right to sell me the place or take a premium—
that the owner is coming from the continent and wants instant
possession—never so thankful in my life—better already—pack up—send for
van—hire omnibus for wife, children, and light luggage—go gently myself
with poor Dick in a coach.
26th.—Here comes the omnibus. Huzza!
[Illustration:
SEPTEMBER.
]
┌─────────────┬───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┐
│1835.] │ SEPTEMBER. │
├─────────────┼───────────────────────────────────────────────────────┤
│ │Boiling, boiling, stewed in steamers, │
│ │ Aldgate flares in Margate manners; │
│ │Fleet Ditch—Shoreditch—both are streamers; │
│ │ London flags, deserted banners. │
├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
│ M│ Season's │ =Odd Matters.= │ WEATHER. │
│ D│ Signs. │ │ │
├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
│ 1│Ods! │ │ If it be │
│ │ │ │ │
│ 2│flints │ THE COCKNEY'S ANNUAL. │ not │
│ │ │ │ │
│ 3│and │There's one thing very wonderful,—indeed, │ ♄ ♂ ☊ ☉ ⚹ │
│ │ │ it quite astonishes, │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│ 4│triggers │And of the March of Intellect it forcibly │ ☉ ♀ │
│ │ │ admonishes, │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│ 5│double │It shows how wise the people are in every │ seasonable │
│ │ │ situation │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│ 6│barrel- │And tho' they love reform, how much they │ weather │
│ │ │ hate all innovation, │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│ 7│led │It proves, that tho' unsparingly they root│ │
│ │ │ out old abuses, │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│ 8│guns │They have a pious care for things of │ ⚹ ♊ ♈ ☌ │
│ │ │ venerable uses; │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│ 9│and │And tho' some folks don't scruple much to │ at │
│ │ │ talk of revolution; │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│10│per- │And many would not hesitate to change the │ this time, │
│ │ │ constitution; │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│11│cussion │Yet this one thing's so cherish'd with a │ ♉ ♄ ☉ ♊ ☌ │
│ │ │ laudable affection,— │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│12│locks │This idol of our ancestors, this mirror │ then │
│ │ │ for reflection,— │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│13│powder │That in the very centre of fair London's │ will it be │
│ │ │ gorgeous city, │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│14│horns │It reigns, as in the days of old, to glad │ otherwise; │
│ │ │ the wise and witty; │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│15│and │Exhibiting the anxious care the Civical │ │
│ │ │ Nobility │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│16│shot │Feel for the moral purity of London's │ ♀ ☍ ♑ ♌ ☋ │
│ │ │ chaste mobility: │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│17│pocket │A long harangue I'd make of it, but flinch│ which will │
│ │ │ from your ferocity, │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│18│pistols │Already rous'd up to the highest pitch of │ be worthy │
│ │ │ curiosity, │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│19│charged │I'll tell you then what 'tis at once, and │ │
│ │ │ nothing more shall follow new,— │ │
│ │ │ │ ☍ ☌ ♄ ☉ │
│20│with │It is that rural festival—the FAIR OF ST. │ │
│ │ │ BARTHOLOMEW │ │
│ │ │ │ of a │
│21│brandy │ │ │
│ │ │ │ diligent │
│22│thick │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│23│soled │ │ ⊕ ♉ ♂ ☿ ♑ │
│ │ │ │ │
│24│shoes │ │ searching │
│ │ │ │ │
│25│and │ │ into │
│ │ │ │ │
│26│flab- │ │ │
│ │ │ │ ♂ ♄ ☉ ♈ │
│27│ber- │ │ │
│ │ │ │ the causes │
│28│de- │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│29│gas │ │ ☌ ⚹ ♀ ⊕ ♄ │
│ │ │. │ │
│30│kins │ │ thereof. │
└──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘
┌────────────────────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┐
│ OCTOBER. │ [1835.│
├─────────────┬──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┤
│ │Old Gripes, the brewer, reads with iron phiz │
│ │The _Times_, nor cares if hops be "fell" or "riz;" │
│ │Nor does the malt-tax cause him hope or fear, │
│ │For malt has no connexion with _his_ beer. │
├──┬──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┬────────────┤
│ M│ Season's │ =Odd Matters.= │ WEATHER. │
│ D│ Signs. │ │ │
├──┼──────────┼──────────────────────────────────────────┼────────────┤
│ 1│Now's │ │ │
│ │ │ │ We look │
│ 2│the │ THE RETURN TO TOWN. │ │
│ │ │ │ now for │
│ 3│time │At length, compell'd by emptying purse │ │
│ │ │To fly from fleas, and something worse— │ ♉ ☍ ♈ ♀ │
│ 4│by │The oft-sung strain, "Do let us stay │ │
│ │ │Another week," is thrown away: │cool weather│
│ 5│jingo │You talk of rain, and chilly weather, │ │
│ │ │That cash and days grow short together, │ ⚹ ♏ ♀ │
│ 6│for │That winds, and clouds, and fogs are come,│ │
│ │ │All hints to haste from Hastings home; │ ♀ ♃ ⊕ ♎ ♐ │
│ 7│brewing │So nought remains but just to get, │ │
│ │ │Before you travel, out of debt; │ which is a │
│ 8│rare │Glut all the household birds of prey, │ │
│ │ │Pack your remains, and run away. │ reasonable │
│ 9│good │At raffles oft you've tried your fate, │ │
│ │ │And let your gains accumulate, │expectation │
│10│stingo │And now you wind up all the fun │ │
│ │ │With ten pounds staked, a sovereign won, │ │
│11│and │For which you bear away to town │ ☊ ♓ ♑ ♌ │
│ │ │Gilt paper treasures worth a crown. │ │
│12│where │No doubt you've tried, like all the rest, │yet hath it │
│ │ │A little smuggling for a zest; │ │
│13│is he │Sufficient proof, you've fill'd your jars │ sometimes │
│ │ │With Cognac made at Smithfield Bars; │ │
│14│who'd │Your wife has bargain'd for French │ chanced │
│ │ │ flowers, │ │
│ │ │All grown in Hatton Garden's bowers; │ │
│15│dare to │On foreign silks display'd her skill, │ otherwise, │
│ │ │While Spitalfields supplied her still. │ │
│16│scorn │And last comes on the dismal day │ │
│ │ │When daughters slowly slink away, │ ♒ ☿ ♊ ♍ ☽ │
│17│the │And leave you, warned by gloomy brows, │ │
│ │ │With money bills, brought up by spouse, │and so I do │
│18│famous │Debating clauses, which, alas! │ │
│ │ │You neither can throw out nor pass. │ leave you │
│19│Sir John │And when you've managed all to pay, │ │
│ │ │You skulk to town the cheapest way; │ to decide │
│20│Barley- │Put sixpence in the coachman's hand, │ │
│ │ │Haggle with Jarvey on the stand, │ upon the │
│21│corn │And curs'd and bullied, off you sneak, │ │
│ │ │To pinch at home for many a week. │probability │
│22│let │ │ │
│ │ │ │ either way │
│23│others │ │ │
│ │ │ │ │
│24│boast of │ │ ♀ ♏ ⚹ │
│ │ │ │ │
│25│foreign │ │ being not │
│ │ │ │ │
│26│wine │ │ unmindful │
│ │ │ │ │
│27│a cup │ │ as to what │
│ │ │ │ │
│28│of home │ │ the Great │
│ │ │ │ │
│29│brew'd │ │ Comet hath │
│ │ │ │ │
│30│beer │ │to do in the│
│ │ │ │ │
│31│be mine. │ │ matter. │
└──┴──────────┴──────────────────────────────────────────┴────────────┘
[Illustration:
OCTOBER.
]