The Comic Almanack, Volume 2: An Ephemeris in Jest and Earnest, Containing Merry Tales, Humerous Poetry, Quips, and Oddities

In Short

This volume is an anthology of ten years of The Comic Almanack, a perennial publication that ran from 1844 to 1853. It functions as a satirical companion to the calendar, blending practical advice—some of it intentionally useless—with humorous poetry, mock-advertisements, and biting sketches of London life. Featuring legendary illustrations by George Cruikshank, the collection offers a panoramic view of the Victorian era’s preoccupations, from political infighting and railway mania to the trivialities of high-society etiquette. It remains a vital piece of literary history, preserving the voices of celebrated writers like Thackeray and his contemporaries as they turned their sharp, observational eyes upon the eccentricities of their age.

The Story

The narrative arc of this almanac is not a linear progression of plot, but rather the unfolding of a decade’s worth of public life in Britain. Each annual entry begins with the passage of time—the rotation of the seasons and the cycle of the Zodiac—before plunging into the chaotic, often ridiculous machinery of the state. The almanac frames history as a series of absurd performances; it depicts Parliament as a theater of dance, where political figures "set to" and "cross over" in a never-ending pas-de-quatre, treating legislation not as serious governance but as a frantic, confusing shuffling of positions.

As the years pass, the almanac shifts its focus to the changing landscape of mid-century London. It documents the "Railway Mania," where new transit lines promise speed but deliver collisions, and where directors act as literal "buffers" for public criticism. It touches upon the rise of consumer culture, mocking the "ruin sales" and "distressing bankruptcies" that shopkeepers staged to swindle gullible shoppers. The tone is consistently playful, yet it reveals a deep-seated cynicism toward the institutions of the day.

The "story" of the almanac is ultimately the story of a society trying to reconcile traditional values with a rapidly modernizing world. We see this in the satirical treatment of the "Misses Hiceter," young women forced to abandon their farm-life gentility for a new, hollow social reality. We see it in the frantic, competitive posturing of London "fast men," who prowl the Stock Exchange, and in the bizarre, imaginative descriptions of far-off lands like those of the "Bedouin Arabs," portrayed as a race of human leapers who defy gravity.

The text concludes not with a final resolution, but with a series of intellectual traps—conundrums, puzzles, and "impossible" problems—that invite the reader to participate in the game. Even the most serious historical events, like the exhibition of the Koh-i-noor diamond, are debunked and recast as droll, inconsequential accidents involving chandelier glass and dancing schools. By the final pages, the reader has traversed a decade where nothing is sacred, where every politician is a punchline, and where the only certainty is the next nonsensical trend. The almanac leaves us in a state of amused exhaustion, having dismantled the dignity of the Victorian age with a steady stream of quips, anagrams, and "Facts That Do Not Come Within the Recollection of the Oldest Inhabitant."

How It Unfolds

The calendar begins The book opens with the arrival of a new year, offering simple rules for interpreting laws and managing one's finances through absurd mathematical paradoxes. It establishes a tone of ironic detachment, advising the reader to avoid reading the preambles of acts of Parliament and to treat the saving of pennies as a shortcut to immense wealth.

The political dance The almanac chronicles the parliamentary year through the lens of a dance, where leaders like Lord Brougham and Sir Robert Peel engage in a formal, empty choreography of resignation and debate. It casts the legislative process as a series of eclipses, where ambitious men strive to throw one another into the shade while the public looks on with skepticism.

The industrial surge The narrative moves into the mid-1840s, focusing on the hazards of the new railway age and the ridiculous schemes of the "Mutual Plate Presentation Association." It highlights the absurdity of modern business practices, from the "buffer" directors on trains to the fake fire sales designed to lure naive buyers into spending their last pennies.

The trivial pursuits As the almanac reaches its later years, the focus turns toward the domestic sphere and the "great exhibitions" of the era. It presents puzzles and enigmas—such as the true history of the Koh-i-noor—that reduce grand imperial triumphs to mundane, laughable origins.

The final curtain The collection closes with a series of "conundrums" and "final blazes of glory," where the humor becomes increasingly meta-textual and self-referential. It ends on a note of playful defiance, suggesting that even in the face of modern progress, the most reliable thing to find in a book of wit is, quite simply, no bad jokes at all.

The People

The almanac is populated by archetypes rather than individuals, though their distinct voices drive the humor. The Twelfth-Night King sits upon his throne of an easy chair, reigning over a kingdom of cake and champagne, representing the fleeting, harmless joy the almanac promises its readers. In contrast, the City "Fast Man," Faddle, represents the superficiality of the age; he is a man of tight boots and narrow neckcloths who spends his days posturing at the Stock Exchange, mistaking his own frantic motion for meaningful work.

We also meet the Misses Hiceter, two sisters whose desperate attempt to maintain aristocratic airs on a failing farm serves as a poignant, if mocked, portrait of class anxiety. Their struggle to enforce "refined" behavior—like wearing diamond rings while plowing—highlights the absurdity of the era’s social expectations. Meanwhile, the "Bedouin Arabs"—as imagined by a writer who has never seen them—are a recurring, surreal collective force. They are cast as a nation of leapers, living in houses with high windows to keep out the unruly, acting as a bizarre, gravity-defying mirror to the rigid, grounded citizens of London.

Finally, there are the "liners" and "stags," the anonymous drifters and writers of the day, who haunt the pages. They represent the precarious nature of life in London, constantly searching for a meal, a hoax to write about, or a way to turn a "curious case of instinct" into a bit of pocket money. They are the true inhabitants of this world—cynical, hungry, and perpetually ready to trade a scrap of dignity for a laugh or a dinner.

In Its Own Voice

"When you come to a very long clause, skip it altogether, for it is sure to be unintelligible."

This advice is offered as a practical strategy for any citizen attempting to understand the complex and often contradictory acts of British Parliament.

"A penny saved is said to be twopence earned; so that if you have twopence and save a penny, you have twopence still; and if the twopence be saved till the next day, it will be fourpence."

The almanac presents this flawed arithmetic as a helpful, albeit nonsensical, guide for young beginners in the art of household economy.

"What is that which if you stamp upon it, appears above your head, and if you blow upon it, vanishes?"

The almanac poses this classic riddle as part of a series of brain-teasers intended to challenge the reader's wit.

What It's Really About

At its core, this volume is an anatomy of the Victorian preoccupation with appearances. The humor relentlessly exposes the "mask" worn by society, whether it is the politician’s dance of authority, the shopkeeper’s fake bankruptcy, or the aristocrat’s insistence on white kid gloves in the mud of a farm. The text argues that the modern world is an elaborate stage play where the props—the snuff-boxes, the fancy clothes, the railway lines—are more significant to the participants than the reality they supposedly serve. It explores the tension between an old, idealized England and a new, commercial reality defined by "competition" and "frivolity." Ultimately, the almanac asks whether any of these systems—legal, social, or economic—have any solid foundation at all, or if they are simply, like the Koh-i-noor, bits of glass polished to look like something of value.

Why Read It Today

Readers who enjoy the sharp, observational satire of modern late-night comedy or the absurdist sketches of Monty Python will find a familiar spirit here. The almanac thrives on the same kind of rapid-fire, irreverent energy, poking fun at the pomposity of public figures and the absurdity of everyday life. It is not a book for a single, long sitting; rather, it is a bedside companion intended to be opened for a quick dose of cynicism and wit.

However, the modern reader should be prepared for the specificities of its time. The humor often relies on an intimate knowledge of 1840s and 50s London—its specific politicians, scandals, and street corners. Some of these references feel distant, and the reader may occasionally find themselves untethered by the lack of historical footnotes. Furthermore, the book bears the hallmarks of its era; the casual, often derogatory attitudes toward other nations and the "nigger reality" of its characterizations are jarring and reflect the unvarnished prejudices of the 19th-century British middle class. These moments are uncomfortable, yet they are an inescapable part of the historical record provided by these texts. If you approach it as a collage of a decade—a frantic, funny, and sometimes cruel look at a society in the throes of radical change—you will find it an invaluable, if occasionally difficult, window into the Victorian soul. It rewards those who are willing to navigate its period slang and dense thickets of satire to find the timeless, human absurdity hidden beneath.