"All my family, by the mother's side, are famous for their eyes. I have a great aunt amongst the beauties at Windsor; she has a sister at Hampton Court, a perdegeous fine woman! she had but one eye, but that was a piercer: that one eye got her three husbands."

The painter appears to us to be a portrait of Foote. We ought not to forget to mention, at least, Francis I. and his Sister, splendidly engraved by C. Heath, from a picture by Bonington.

THE COMIC ANNUAL

By Thomas Hood, Esq

We intend to let the facetious author have his own say on the comical contents of this very comical little work, by merely running over a few of the head and tail pieces of the several pages. We think with Mr. Hood, that "In the Christmas Holidays, or rather, Holly Days, according to one of the emblems of the season, we naturally look for mirth. Christmas is strictly a Comic Annual, and its specific gaiety is even implied in the specific gravity of its oxen." So much for the design, which is far more congenial to our feelings than the thousand and one sonnets, pointless epigrams, laments, and monodies, which are usually showered from crimson and gold envelopes at this dull season of the year. There are thirty-seven pieces—all in humorous and "righte merrie conceite." We shall give a few random extracts, or specimens, and then run over the cuts. Our first is—(and what should it be?)

NUMBER ONE

"It's very hard! and so it is, To live in such a row, And witness this, that every Miss But me has got a beau. For Love goes calling up and down, But here he seems to shun. I'm sure he has been asked enough To call at Number One! "I'm sick of all the double knocks That come to Number Four! At Number Three I often see A lover at the door; And one in blue, at Number Two, Calls daily like a dun,— It's very hard they come so near And not at Number One. "Miss Bell, I hear, has got a dear Exactly to her mind, By sitting at the window pane Without a bit of blind; But I go in the balcony, Which she has never done, Yet arts that thrive at Number Five Don't take at Number One. "'Tis hard with plenty in the street, And plenty passing by,— There's nice young men at Number Ten, But only rather shy; And Mrs. Smith across the way Has got a grown-up son. But la! he hardly seems to know There is a Number One! "There's Mr. Wick at Number Nine, But he's intent on pelf, And though he's pious, will not love His neighbour as himself. At Number Seven there was a sale— The goods had quite a run! And here I've got my single lot On hand at Number One! "My mother often sits at work And talks of props and stays, And what a comfort I shall be In her declining days! The very maids about the house Have set me down a nun, The sweethearts all belong to them That call at Number One! "Once only, when the flue took fire, One Friday afternoon, Young Mr. Long came kindly in, And told me not to swoon. Why can't he come again without The Phoenix and the Sun? We cannot always have a flue On fire at Number One! "I am not old, I am not plain, Nor awkward in my gait— I am not crooked like the bride That went from Number Eight; I'm sure white satin made her look As brown as any bun— But even beauty has no chance I think at Number One. "At Number Six they say Miss Rose Has slain a score of hearts, And Cupid, for her sake, has been Quite prodigal of darts. The imp they show with bended bow— I wish he had a gun; But if he had, he'd never deign To shoot with Number One. "It's very hard, and so it is, To live in such a row; And here's a ballad-singer come To aggravate my woe; O take away your foolish song And tones enough to stun— There is 'nae luck about the house,' I know at Number One."

Next is a prose sketch:

THE FURLOUGH.—AN IRISH ANECDOTE

"In the autumn of 1825, some private affairs called me into the sister kingdom; and as I did not travel, like Polyphemus, with my eye out, I gathered a few samples of Irish character, amongst which was the following incident:—

"I was standing one morning at the window of 'mine Inn,' when my attention was attracted by a scene that took place beneath. The Belfast coach was standing at the door, and on the roof, in front, sat a solitary outside passenger, a fine young fellow, in the uniform of the Connaught Rangers. Below, by the front wheel, stood an old woman, seemingly his mother, a young man, and a younger woman, sister or sweetheart; and they were all earnestly entreating the young soldier to descend from his seat on the coach.

"'Come down wid ye, Thady'—the speaker was the old woman—'come down now to your ould mother; sure it's flog ye they will, and strip the flesh off the bones I giv ye. Come down, Thady, darlin!'

"'It's honour, mother,' was the short reply of the soldier; and with clenched hands and set teeth, he took a stiffer posture on the coach.

"'Thady, come down—come down, ye fool of the world—come along down wid ye!' The tone of the present appeal was more impatient and peremptory than the last; and the answer was more promptly and sternly pronounced: 'It's honour, brother!' and the body of the speaker rose more rigidly erect than ever on the roof.

"'O Thady, come down! sure it's me, your own Kathleen, that bids ye! Come down, or ye'll break the heart of me, Thady, jewel; come down then!' The poor girl wrung her hands as she said it, and cast a look upward that had a visible effect on the muscles of the soldier's countenance. There was more tenderness in his tone, but it conveyed the same resolution as before.

"'It's honour, honour bright, Kathleen!' and, as if to defend himself from another glance, he fixed his look steadfastly in front, while the renewed entreaties burst from all three in chorus, with the same answer.

"'Come down, Thady, honey!—Thady, ye fool, come down!—O Thady, come down to me!'

"'It's honour, mother!—It's honour, brother!—Honour bright, my own Kathleen!'

"Although the poor fellow was a private, this appeal was so public, that I did not hesitate to go down and inquire into the particulars of the distress. It appeared that he had been home, on furlough, to visit his family,—and having exceeded, as he thought, the term of his leave, he was going to rejoin his regiment, and to undergo the penalty of his neglect. I asked him when the furlough expired?

"'The first of March, your honour—bad luck to it of all the black days in the world—and here it is, come sudden on me, like a shot!'

"'The first of March!—why, my good fellow, you have a day to spare then—the first of March will not be here till to-morrow. It is Leap Year, and February has twenty-nine days.'

"The soldier was thunder-struck.—'Twenty-nine days is it?—you're sartin of that same! Oh, mother, mother!—the devil fly away wid yere ould almanack—a base cratur of a book, to be deceaven one, afther living so long in the family of us!'

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The Mirror of Literature, Amusement, and Instruction. Volume 14, No. 402, Supplementary Number (1829)

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THE COMIC ANNUAL

By Thomas Hood, Esq

NUMBER ONE

THE FURLOUGH.—AN IRISH ANECDOTE

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