MALICIOUS FABRICATION, a long letter from myself, declaring 4 7
most circumstantially that I am not, and have never been
dead, and spurning in the most indignant manner (to the
extent probably of three shillings) the Verdict of
"Temporary Insanity"
ANOTHER LETTER, commenting with moderation on the atrocious 1 11¼
cruelty of the fabrication, and lashing Lord John for not
instituting proceedings for the discovery of the Monster in
human form, who first propagated the Heartless Rumour
———— ————
19 9¾
Now I know, Tom, this would be unprofessional, but really in times like
these, when a capital execution scarcely turns up once a year, it
doesn't do for a person to be over nice; besides, if I do extinguish my
vital spark for six days, where's the great harm? Not a person sustains
the slightest injury; I have no relations to blackguard me afterwards
for not dying. I have no heirs to sue the paper for damages; I have no
grandmothers to be hurried into an early grave by the intelligence; and
I get a week's dinners by dying at a time I was never more puzzled how
to live. My table, I can assure you, has not groaned under the luxuries
of the season for ever so long. So where is the great sin of leaving
this sublunary sphere for seven days, if I cannot keep soul and body
together without it? Psha! it's all affectation, and I have a good mind
to try an Awful Suicide to-morrow; and, to make it more interesting,
call myself "a Gentleman of Fortune." All this scarcity comes of
educating people, and the march of intellect, and the rage for
improvements! Did you ever hear such nonsense? Why, I suppose
civilization will be taking such rapid strides that the wood pavement—(I
hope you have got one in your place; the bit of wood in the Strand lit
my fires for two winters running: what a field it was for accidents, to
be sure! I used to pick up two a day)—will be cut eventually from under
our feet, and we shan't have a bit of orange-peel, or a slide even, to
stand upon, or as much as a drop of prussic-acid to warm our hearts with
before going to bed of a cold night. It's all a mistake; and if I am a
victim to it I shall lay my death at the door of civilization, and
charge them with it. Why, the cabs are nothing to what they used to be—
they wont upset; and I do really believe the omnibus conductors are
getting civil, merely to spite us. The lightning conductors, too, are
very little better. I haven't been able to drink your health in a drop
of electric fluid for many a day. Where it will end none of us can tell.
The steamers have done a little for business, it's true, and I expect
they will do a great deal more for us; but what, I ask you, is a
_Cricket_ amongst so many? Besides, one doesn't get such a good blow-out
every day. Education, I see, will be the ruin of us all. I have serious
thoughts of turning an informer, and reporting my own cases; or, if it
comes to the worst, of going over to Dublin, and stopping there
patiently till the row at Conciliation Hall begins. I wish it would take
place to-morrow! They are a long time about it for Irishmen; for the
winter is coming on, and I must give up all thoughts of coals, unless I
get a good Destructive Fire or two. Candles, too, come dear when you
cannot find, search where you will, the smallest bit of Seasonable
Benevolence to pay for them. There's only Railways left us. Do you know,
I drink the health of that dear Eastern Counties every time I am lucky
enough to get an Awful Accident out of it. Why, Tom, my boy, I was only
thinking this morning, as I was leaning over London Bridge, hoping an
ill wind would blow me something good, that I would start a railway, and
so make my own Accidents, and write them, for greater accuracy, on the
spot. I might contract with the different papers to supply them cheap
all the year round. But then I recollected, and a burning tear bedewed
my eye, that that line of luck was all over, that the poor stags were
fairly run off their legs, and that an end had been put for ever to
Capel Court. Twelve months sooner, and the thing might have been done. I
only wish I was in Hudson's shoes, that's all. What a deal of money I
would make, 'lining—wouldn't I, just!
Well, Tom, I must leave you. The neighborhood has just been thrown into
the greatest consternation by an "Enormous Gooseberry." I run to measure
it with an India-rubber band, for that stretches the best. I hope it is
a crammer; at all events I must make it large enough to serve me for
dinner, and leave me something to fill my pipe with afterwards.
Good-bye, Tom. I hope Liverpool (you lucky fellow, you had the Fever all
last winter; you ought to have made your fortune, too, with the Irish)
is better off in Accidents—it is much richer I know in Fires—than
London. If not, I will make this agreement with you: you shall have my
Inhuman Neglect by the Parish Authorities, if you bequeath me your Awful
Death by Starvation. Is that a bargain?
I remain, my dear Tom,
In a state much better conceived than described,
Yours regularly "in a line,"
A. CHANCE.
The Ether's a failure; not a single explosion worth having. Can't you
send me up a Shower of Frogs in your next letter? You shall have an
Infamous Hoax by return. I say, the American Sea-serpent has not had a
turn lately, or the Oldest Inhabitant, and, _entre nous_, Lord B—h—m has
not been killed once these seven years; I have got his Life all ready. I
will toss you for him, if you like. What do you say? Two out of three?
or Sudden Death?
_Young Flimsy_ was complaining at the _Blue Bottle_ last night of the
pressure of the _Times_. He said he had a most "Wonderful Appetite" on
Thursday, and invited half-a-dozen "liners" to supper on the strength of
it, but the Currency deprived him of every penny, notwithstanding he had
a Curious Case of Instinct, which he made sure would bring him in
half-a-crown.
Address to me at the _Illustrated Weekly Murder Sheet_ Office.
ILLUSTRATED CONUNDRUM.
(THE OLDEST ON RECORD.)
_Question._—=W= [Illustration] is a [Illustration] a [Illustration]
_ Answer._—=W= [Illustration] it is =A= [Illustration]