Humorous Readings and Recitations, in Prose and Verse
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Title: Humorous Readings and Recitations, in Prose and Verse
Editor: Leopold Wagner
Release date: July 18, 2011 [eBook #36775]
Language: English
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK HUMOROUS READINGS AND RECITATIONS, IN PROSE AND VERSE ***
Produced by Delphine Lettau and the Online Distributed
Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
HUMOROUS READINGS
AND
RECITATIONS.
HUMOROUS READINGS
AND
RECITATIONS
_IN PROSE AND VERSE_.
SELECTED AND EDITED
BY
LEOPOLD WAGNER,
EDITOR OF
"MODERN READINGS AND RECITATIONS,"
"NEW READINGS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS," ETC.
London and New York:
FREDERICK WARNE AND CO.
1889.
LONDON:
BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
PREFACE.
In introducing to the public a Third Series of "Popular Readings," I
consider it merely necessary to state that the courtesy of authors and
publishers has enabled me to bring together a choice selection of
humorous pieces which have acquired a large share of popularity, in
addition to a number of others that may justly be regarded as novelties.
Concerning the former, I have so often had occasion to answer inquiries
respecting particular pieces for recitation, that it occurred to me the
handy collection of those most generally sought after, but hitherto
scattered through various publications, would be welcomed by many; and I
took steps accordingly. How far I have succeeded in my purpose a glance
at the Contents-list will show. For the fresh matter admitted to these
pages, I sincerely trust that from among so many new candidates for
popularity, at least one or two of them may be elected to represent the
Penny Reading Constituents of each respective Borough for some time to
come.
Once more I beg to express my indebtedness and thanks to those authors
and publishers who have so generously placed their copyright pieces at
my disposal.
L. W.
BROMPTON.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
ACCOMPANIED ON THE FLUTE _F. Anstey_ 1
THE TROUBLES OF A TRIPLET _W. Beatty-Kingston_ 8
SLIGHTLY DEAF _Bracebridge Hemming_ 10
THE LADY FREEMASON _H. T. Craven_ 18
WHAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT! _F. B. Harrison_ 24
THE FATAL LEGS _Walter Browne_ 27
THE CALIPH'S JESTER _From the Arabic_ 29
A JOURNEY IN SEARCH OF NOTHING _Wilkie Collins_ 32
GEMINI AND VIRGO _C. S. Calverley_ 37
KING BIBBS _James Albery_ 41
MOLLY MULDOON _Anonymous_ 48
THE HARMONIOUS LOBSTERS _Robert Reece_ 52
THE PROVINCIAL LANDLADY _H. Chance Newton_ 57
MY MATRIMONIAL PREDICAMENT _Leopold Wagner_ 58
ETIQUETTE _W. S. Gilbert_ 62
A LOST SHEPHERD _Frank Barrett_ 65
A MATHEMATIC MADNESS _F. P. Dempster_ 70
WAITING AT TOTTLEPOT _J. Ashby-Sterry_ 72
MARRIED TO A GIANTESS _Walter Parke_ 75
THE VISION OF THE ALDERMAN _Henry S. Leigh_ 79
THE DEMON SNUFFERS _Geo. Manville Fenn_ 80
THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER _Lewis Carroll_ 86
MY BROTHER HENRY _J. M. Barrie_ 89
A NIGHT WITH A STORK _W. E. Wilcox_ 92
THE FAITHFUL LOVERS _F. C. Burnand_ 95
THE WAIL OF A BANNER-BEARER _Arthur Matthison_ 96
THE DREAM OF THE BILIOUS BEADLE _Arthur Shirley_ 99
MY FRIEND TREACLE _Watkin-Elliott_ 101
THE VOICE OF THE SLUGGARD _Anonymous_ 107
ARTEMUS WARD'S VISIT TO THE TOWER
OF LONDON _Chas. Farrar Browne_ 108
MR. CAUDLE HAS LENT AN ACQUAINTANCE
THE FAMILY UMBRELLA _Douglas Jerrold_ 111
DOMESTIC ASIDES _Tom Hood_ 113
THE CHARITY DINNER _Litchfield Moseley_ 115
ACTING WITH A VENGEANCE _W. Sapte, Jun._ 120
MY FORTNIGHT AT WRETCHEDVILLE _George Augustus Sala_ 126
THE SORROWS OF WERTHER _W. M. Thackeray_ 132
MORAL MUSIC _Anonymous_ 133
BILLY DUMPS, THE TAILOR _Charles Clark_ 136
ON PUNNING _Theodore Hook_ 139
SEASIDE LODGINGS _Percy Reeve_ 140
HUMOROUS READINGS
AND
RECITATIONS.
ACCOMPANIED ON THE FLUTE.
F. ANSTEY.
The Consul Duilius was entertaining Rome in triumph after his celebrated
defeat of the Carthaginian fleet at Mylae. He had won a great naval
victory for his country with the first fleet that it had ever
possessed--which was naturally a gratifying reflection, and he would
have been perfectly happy now if he had only been a little more
comfortable.
But he was standing in an extremely rickety chariot, which was crammed
with his nearer relations, and a few old friends, to whom he had been
obliged to send tickets. At his back stood a slave, who held a heavy
Etruscan crown on the Consul's head, and whenever he thought his master
was growing conceited, threw in the reminder that he was only a man
after all--a liberty which at any other time he might have had good
reason to regret.
Then the large Delphic wreath, which Duilius wore as well as the crown,
had slipped down over one eye, and was tickling his nose, while (as both
his hands were occupied, one with a sceptre the other with a laurel
bough, and he had to hold on tightly to the rail of the chariot whenever
it jolted) there was nothing to do but suffer in silence.
They had insisted, too, upon painting him a beautiful bright red all
over, and though it made him look quite new, and very shining and
splendid, he had his doubts at times whether it was altogether becoming,
and particularly whether he would ever be able to get it off again.
But these were but trifles after all, and nothing compared with the
honour and glory of it! Was not everybody straining to get a glimpse of
him? Did not even the spotted and skittish horses which drew the
chariot repeatedly turn round to gaze upon his vermilioned features? As
Duilius remarked this he felt that he was, indeed, the central personage
in all this magnificence, and that, on the whole, he liked it.
He could see the beaks of the ships he had captured bobbing up and down
in the middle distance; he could see the white bulls destined for
sacrifice entering completely into the spirit of the thing, and
redeeming the procession from any monotony by occasionally bolting down
a back street, or tossing on their gilded horns some of the flamens who
were walking solemnly in front of them.
He could hear, too, above five distinct brass bands, the remarks of his
friends as they predicted rain, or expressed a pained surprise at the
smallness of the crowd and the absence of any genuine enthusiasm; and he
caught the general purport of the very offensive ribaldry circulated at
his own expense among the brave legions that brought up the rear.
This was merely the usual course of things on such occasions, and a
great compliment when properly understood, and Duilius felt it to be so.
In spite of his friends, the red paint, and the familiar slave, in spite
of the extreme heat of the weather and his itching nose, he told himself
that this, and this alone, was worth living for.
And it was a painful reflection to him that, after all, it would only
last a day; he could not go on triumphing like this for the remainder of
his natural life--he would not be able to afford it on his moderate
income; and yet--and yet--existence would fall woefully flat after so
much excitement.
It may be supposed that Duilius was naturally fond of ostentation and
notoriety, but this was far from being the case; on the contrary, at
ordinary times his disposition was retiring and almost shy, but his
sudden success had worked a temporary change in him, and in the very
flush of triumph he found himself sighing to think, that in all human
probability, he would never go about with trumpeters and trophies, with
flute-players and white oxen, any more in his whole life.
And then he reached the Porta Triumphalis, where the chief magistrates
and the Senate awaited them, all seated upon spirited Roman-nosed
chargers, which showed a lively emotion at the approach of the
procession, and caused most of their riders to dismount with as much
affectation of method and design as their dignity enjoined and the
nature of the occasion permitted.
There Duilius was presented with the freedom of the city and an address,
which last he put in his pocket, as he explained, to read at home.
And then an AEdile informed him in a speech, during which he twice lost
his notes, and had to be prompted by a lictor, that the grateful
Republic, taking into consideration the Consul's distinguished services,
had resolved to disregard expense, and on that auspicious day to give
him whatever reward he might choose to demand--"in reason," the AEdile
added cautiously, as he quitted his saddle with an unexpectedness which
scarcely seemed intentional.
Duilius was naturally a little overwhelmed by such liberality, and, like
every one else favoured suddenly with such an opportunity, was quite
incapable of taking complete advantage of it.
For a time he really could not remember in his confusion anything he
would care for at all, and he thought it might look mean to ask for
money.
At last he recalled his yearning for a Perpetual Triumph, but his
natural modesty made him moderate, and he could not find courage to ask
for more than a fraction of the glory that now attended him.
So, not without some hesitation, he replied that they were exceedingly
kind, and since they left it entirely to his discretion, he would
like--if they had no objection--he would like a flute-player to attend
him whenever he went out.
Duilius very nearly asked for a white bull as well; but, on second
thoughts, he felt it might lead to inconvenience, and there were many
difficulties connected with the proper management of such an animal. The
Consul, from what he had seen that day, felt that it would be imprudent
to trust himself in front of the bull, while, if he walked behind, he
might be mistaken for a cattle-driver, which would be odious. And so he
gave up that idea, and contented himself with a simple flute-player.
The Senate, visibly relieved by so unassuming a request, granted it with
positive effusion; Duilius was invited to select his musician, and chose
the biggest, after which the procession moved on through the arch and up
the Capitoline Hill, while the Consul had time to remember things he
would have liked even better than a flute-player, and to suspect dimly
that he might have made rather an ass of himself.
* * * * *
That night Duilius was entertained at a supper given at the public
expense; he went out with the proud resolve to show his sense of the
compliment paid him by scaling the giddiest heights of intoxication. The
Romans of that day only drank wine and water at their festivals, but it
is astonishing how inebriated a person of powerful will can become, even
on wine and water, if he only gives his mind to it. And Duilius, being a
man of remarkable determination, returned from that hospitable board
particularly drunk; the flute-player saw him home, however, helped him
to bed, though he could not induce him to take off his sandals, and
lulled him to a heavy slumber by a selection from the popular airs of
the time.
So that the Consul, although he awoke late next day with a bad headache
and a perception of the vanity of most things, still found reason to
congratulate himself upon his forethought in securing so invaluable an
attendant, and planned, rather hopefully, sundry little ways of making
him useful about the house.
As the subsequent history of this great naval commander is examined with
the impartiality that becomes the historian, it is impossible to be
blind to the melancholy fact that in the first flush of his elation
Duilius behaved with an utter want of tact and taste that must have gone
far to undermine his popularity, and proved a source of much
gratification to his friends.
He would use that flute-player everywhere--he overdid the thing
altogether: for example, he used to go out to pay formal calls, and
leave the flute-player in the hall tootling to such an extent that at
last his acquaintances were forced in self-defence to deny themselves to
him.
When he attended worship at the temples, too, he would bring the
flute-player with him, on the flimsy pretext that he could assist the
choir during service; and it was the same at the theatres, where
Duilius--such was his arrogance--actually would not take a box unless
the manager admitted the flute-player to the orchestra and guaranteed
him at least one solo between the acts.
And it was the Consul's constant habit to strut about the Forum with his
musician executing marches behind him, until the spectacle became so
utterly ridiculous that even the Romans of that age, who were as free
from the slightest taint of humour as a self-respecting nation can
possibly be, began to notice something peculiar.
But the day of retribution dawned at last. Duilius worked the flute so
incessantly that the musician's stock of airs was very soon exhausted,
and then he was naturally obliged to blow them through once more.
The excellent Consul had not a fine ear, but even he began to hail the
fiftieth repetition of "Pugnare nolumus," for instance--the great
national peace anthem of the period--with the feeling that he had heard
the same tune at least twice before, and preferred something slightly
fresher, while others had taken a much shorter time in arriving at the
same conclusion.
The elder Duilius, the Consul's father, was perhaps the most annoyed by
it; he was a nice old man in his way--the glass and china way--but he
was a typical old Roman, with a manly contempt for pomp, vanity, music,
and the fine arts generally, so that his son's flute-player, performing
all day in the courtyard, drove the old gentleman nearly mad, until he
would rush to the windows and hurl the lighter articles of furniture at
the head of the persistent musician, who, however, after dodging them
with dexterity, affected to treat them as a recognition of his efforts
and carried them away gratefully to sell.
Duilius senior would have smashed the flute, only it was never laid
aside for a single instant, even at meals; he would have made the
player drunk and incapable, but he was a member of the _Manus Spei_, and
he would with cheerfulness have given him a heavy bribe to go away, if
the honest fellow had not proved absolutely incorruptible.
So he would only sit down and swear, and then relieve his feelings by
giving his son a severe thrashing, with threats to sell him for whatever
he might fetch; for, in the curious conditions of ancient Roman society,
a father possessed both these rights, however his offspring might have
distinguished himself in public life.
Naturally, Duilius did not like the idea of being put up to auction, and
he began to feel that it was slightly undignified for a Roman general
who had won a naval victory and been awarded a first-class Triumph to be
undergoing corporeal punishment daily at the hands of an unflinching
parent, and accordingly he determined to go and expostulate with his
flute-player.
He was beginning to find him a nuisance himself, for all his old shy
reserve and unwillingness to attract attention had returned to him; he
was fond of solitude, and yet he could never be alone; he was weary of
doing everything to slow music, like the bold, bad man in a melodrama.
He could not even go across the street to purchase a postage-stamp
without the flute-player coming stalking out after him, playing away
like a public fountain; while, owing to the well-known susceptibility of
a rabble to the charm of music, the disgusted Consul had to take his
walks abroad at the head of Rome's choicest scum.
Duilius, with a lively recollection of these inconveniences, would have
spoken very seriously indeed to his musician, but he shrank from hurting
his feelings by plain truth. He simply explained that he had not
intended the other to accompany him _always_, but only on special
occasions; and, while professing the sincerest admiration for his
musical proficiency, he felt, as he said, unwilling to monopolise it,
and unable to enjoy it at the expense of a fellow-creature's rest and
comfort.
Perhaps he put the thing a little too delicately to secure the object he
had in view, for the musician, although he was deeply touched by such
unwonted consideration, waved it aside with a graceful fervour which was
quite irresistible.
He assured the Consul that he was only too happy to have been selected
to render his humble tribute to the naval genius of so great a
commander; he would not admit that his own rest and comfort were in the
least affected by his exertions, for, being naturally fond of the flute,
he could, he protested, perform upon it continuously for whole days
without fatigue. And he concluded by pointing out very respectfully that
for the Consul to dispense, even to a small extent, with an honour
decreed (at his own particular request) by the Republic, would have the
appearance of ingratitude, and expose him to the gravest suspicions.
After which he rendered the ancient love-chant, "Ludus idem, ludus
vetus," with singular sweetness and expression.
Duilius felt the force of his arguments. Republics are proverbially
forgetful, and he was aware that it might not be safe even for him, to
risk offending the Senate.
So he had nothing to do but just go on, and be followed about by the
flute-player, and castigated by his parent in the old familiar way,
until he had very little self-respect left.
At last he found a distraction in his care-laden existence--he fell
deeply in love. But even here a musical Nemesis attended him, to his
infinite embarrassment, in the person of his devoted follower. Sometimes
Duilius would manage to elude him, and slip out unseen to some sylvan
retreat, where he had reason to hope for a meeting with the object of
his adoration. He generally found that in this expectation he had not
deceived himself; but, always, just as he had found courage to speak of
the passion that consumed him, a faint tune would strike his ear from
afar, and, turning his head in a fury, he would see his faithful
flute-player striding over the fields in pursuit of him with
unquenchable ardour.
He gave in at last, and submitted to the necessity of speaking all his
tender speeches "through music." Claudia did not seem to mind it,
perhaps finding an additional romance in being wooed thus; and Duilius
himself, who was not eloquent, found that the flute came in very well at
awkward pauses in the conversation.
Then they were married, and, as Claudia played very nicely herself upon
the _tibiae_, she got up musical evenings, when she played duets with the
flute-player, which Duilius, if he had only had a little more taste for
music, might have enjoyed immensely.
As it was, beginning to observe for the first time that the musician was
far from uncomely, he forbade the duets. Claudia wept and sulked, and
Claudia's mother said that Duilius was behaving like a brute, and she
was not to mind him; but the harmony of their domestic life was broken,
until the poor Consul was driven to take long country walks in sheer
despair, not because he was fond of walking, for he hated it, but simply
to keep the flute-player out of mischief.
He was now debarred from all other society, for his old friends had long
since cut him dead whenever he chanced to meet them. "How could he
expect people to stop and talk," they asked indignantly, "when there was
that confounded fellow blowing tunes down the backs of their necks all
the time?"
Duilius had had enough of it himself, and felt this so strongly that one
day he took his flute-player a long walk through a lonely wood, and,
choosing a moment when his companion had played "Id omnes faciunt" till
he was somewhat out of breath, he turned on him suddenly. When he left
the lonely wood he was alone, and near it something which looked as if
it might once have been a musician.
The Consul went home, and sat there waiting for the deed to become
generally known. He waited with a certain uneasiness, because it was
impossible to tell how the Senate might take the thing, or the means by
which their vengeance would declare itself.
And yet his uneasiness was counterbalanced by a delicious relief: the
State might disgrace, banish, put him to death even, but he had got rid
of slow music for ever; and as he thought of this, the stately Duilius
would snap his fingers and dance with secret delight.
All disposition to dance, however, was forgotten upon the arrival of
lictors bearing an official missive. He looked at it for a long time
before he dared to break the big seal, and cut the cord which bound the
tablets which might contain his doom.
He did it at last; and smiled with relief as he began to read: for the
decree was courteously, if not affectionately, worded. The Senate,
considering (or affecting to consider) the disappearance of the
flute-player a mere accident, expressed their formal regret at the
failure of the provision made in his honour.
Then, as he read on, Duilius dashed the tablets into small fragments,
and rolled on the ground, and tore his hair, and howled; for the
senatorial decree concluded by a declaration that, in consideration of
his brilliant exploits, the State hereby placed at his disposal two more
flute-players, who, it was confidently hoped, would survive the wear and
tear of their ministrations longer than the first.
Duilius retired to his room and made his will, taking care to have it
properly signed and attested. Then he fastened himself in; and when they
broke down the door next day they found a lifeless corpse, with a
strange sickly smile upon its pale lips.
No one in Rome quite made out the reason of this smile, but it was
generally thought to denote the gratification of the deceased at the
idea of leaving his beloved ones in comfort, if not in luxury; for,
though the bulk of his fortune was left to Carthaginian charities, he
had had the forethought to bequeath a flute-player apiece to his wife
and mother-in-law.
(_From_ "THE BLACK POODLE," _by permission of Messrs. Longmans,
Green, & Co._)
THE TROUBLES OF A TRIPLET.
W. BEATTY-KINGSTON.
I am, I really think, the most unlucky man on earth;
A triple sorrow haunts me, and has done so from my birth.
My lot in life's a gloomy one, I think you will agree;
'Tis bad enough to be a twin--but I am one of three!
No sooner were we born than Pa and Ma the bounty claimed;
I scarce can bear to think they did--it makes me feel ashamed,
They got it, too, within a week, and spent it, I'll be bound,
Upon themselves--at least, I know I never had _my_ pound.
Our childhood's days in ignorance were lamentably spent,
Although I think we more than paid the taxes, and the rent;
For we were shown as marvels, and--unless I'm much deceived--
The smallest contributions were most thankfully received.
We grew up hale and hearty--would we never had been born!--
As like to one another as three peas, or ears of corn.
Between my brothers _Ichabod_, _Abimelech_ and me
No difference existed which the human eye could see.
This likeness was the cause of dreadful suffering and pain
To me in early life--it nearly broke my heart in twain;
For while my conduct as a youth was fervently admired,
That of my fellow-triplets left a deal to be desired.
I was amiable, and pious, too--good deeds were my delight,
I practised all the virtues--some by day and some by night;
Whilst _Ichabod_ imbrued himself in crime, and, sad to say,
_Abimelech_, when quite a lad, would rather swear than pray.
Think of my horror and dismay when, in the Park at noon,
An obvious burglar greeted me with, "Hullo, Ike, old coon!"
He vanished. Suddenly my wrists were gripped by Policeman X----,
"Young man, you are my prisoner on a charge of forgin' cheques."
He ran me in, and locked me up, to moulder in a cell,
The reason why he used me thus, alas! I know too well.
He took me for _Abimelech_, my erring brother dear,
Who was "wanted" by the Bank of which he'd been the chief cashier.
Next morn the magistrate remarked, "This is a sad mistake,
Though natural enough, I much regret it for your sake;
But if you will permit me to advise you, I should say
Leave England for some other country, very far away.
"For if you go on living in this happy sea-girt isle,
Although your conduct (like my own) be pure and free from guile,
Your likeness to those sinful men, your brothers twain, will lead,
I fear, to very serious inconveniences indeed."
I took the hint, and sailed next day for distant Owhyhee,--
As might have been expected, I was cast away at sea.
A Pirate Lugger picked me up, and--dreadful to relate--
_Abimelech_ her captain was, and _Ichabod_ her mate.
I loved them and they tempted me. To join them I agreed,
Forsook the path of virtue, and did many a ghastly deed.
For seven years I wallowed in my fellow-creatures' gore,
And then gave up the business, to settle down on shore.
My brothers on retiring from the buccaneering trade,
In which, I'm bound to say, colossal fortunes they had made,
Renounced their wicked courses, married young and lovely wives,
Went to church three times on Sundays, and led sanctimonious lives.
As for me,--I somehow drifted into vileness past belief,
Earned unsavoury distinction as a drunkard and a thief;
E'en in crime, ill-luck pursued me: I became extremely poor,
And was finally compelled to beg my bread from door to door.
I'm deep down in the social scale, no lower can I sink;
Upon the whole, experience induces me to think
That virtue is not lucrative, and honesty's all fudge,--
For _Ichabod's_ a Bishop--and _Abimelech's_ a Judge!
(_From_ "PUNCH," _by permission of the Proprietors_.)
SLIGHTLY DEAF.
BRACEBRIDGE HEMMING.
Mr. Loyd was a retired shopkeeper residing at The Lodge, Norwood. He had
amassed a fortune of thirty thousand pounds in the grocery business,
principally by sanding his sugar and flouring his mustard, and other
little tricks of the trade. Yet he went to church every Sunday with a
clear conscience. At the time I introduce him to you he was a widower
with one son, Joseph, aged eighteen.
Joseph was a shy, putty-faced youth, who had the misfortune to be deaf.
"Slightly deaf," his father called him, but he grew worse instead of
better, and threatened to become as deaf as a post or a beetle in time.
Of course his infirmity stood in the way of his getting employment, for
he was always making mistakes of a ludicrous and sometimes aggravating
nature. Add to this that Joseph was very lean and his father very fat,
and you will understand why people called them "Feast and Famine," or
"Substance and Shadow."
One morning after breakfast, Mr. Loyd, who had been looking over some
paid bills, exclaimed, "Joe."
Joseph was reading the paper, and made no answer.
"Joe," thundered his father.
This time the glasses on the sideboard rang, and Joseph got up, walked
to the window and looked out.
"What are you doing?" shouted Mr. Loyd.
"I thought I heard the wind blow," replied Joseph.
"Well! I like that; it was I calling."
"You!"
"Yes, sir."
Joseph invariably grew very angry if he did not hear anybody, for he was
ashamed of his deafness; but he often fell into a brown study and was as
deaf as an adder.
Besides this he was more deaf on one side than on the other, as is often
the case, and he happened to have his very bad ear turned to his father.
"Why don't you speak out?" said he.
"I did," replied Mr. Loyd.
"You always mumble."
"I halloaed loud enough to wake the dead."
"You know I'm slightly deaf."
"Slightly! You'll have to buy an ear-trumpet."
"Trumpet be blowed," answered Joseph.
"Here, put these bills on the file," exclaimed Mr. Loyd, pointing to the
bundle.
Joseph advanced to the table, took up the bills, and deliberately threw
them into the fire, where they were soon blazing merrily.
Mr. Loyd uttered a cry of dismay, sprang up and ran to the grate, but he
was too late to save them.
"You double-barrelled idiot!" he cried.
"What's the fuss now?" asked Joseph calmly.
He always was as cool as a cucumber, no matter what he did.
"You'll never be worth your salt."
"What's my fault?"
"I said salt."
"Keep quiet and I'll get you some."
"No!" roared Mr. Loyd.
"What did you say so for then? It seems to me you don't know your own
mind two minutes together."
Mr. Loyd stamped his foot with impatience on the carpet.
"Oh dear! what a trial you are," he exclaimed. "They are receipted
bills, and I told you to put them on the file. F. I. L. E. Do you hear
that?"
"I hear it now," responded Joe. "It's a pity you won't speak up."
"So I do."
"They'll never call you leather-lungs."
"Oh Joe, Joe! you'll be the death of me. You're a duffer, and it is no
use saying you're not. I was going to tell you I'd got a berth for you,
but I'm afraid you could not keep it."
"What is it?"
"Clerk in the office of my old friend, Mr. Maybrick, the stockbroker."
"Eh!" said Joseph. "What's a mockstoker?"
"A stockbroker," shouted Mr. Loyd.
"Why didn't you say so at first. Do you think I don't know what that is?
I'm not quite such a fool as that comes to."
"You'd aggravate a saint, Joe."
"Paint your toe! Have you gone mad?"
"Great heavens! I shall hit you; get out," shrieked his father.
"Got the gout. Oh! that's another thing. I thought you'd have it. You
drink too much port after dinner."
"I say, Joe," cried Mr. Loyd, "are you doing this on purpose? You don't
understand a word I say; in fact, you misconstrue everything."
"If that is so I can't help it."
"You're getting worse."
"Don't do that," replied Joe gravely.
"Eh?"
"Don't curse me. If I am deaf, that is to say slightly deaf, it is my
misfortune, not my fault; you ought to make allowance for me, and speak
louder."
"Do you want me to be a foghorn, or a river steam tug?"
"Certainly not."
"Or a cavalry man's trumpet, or a bellowing bull?"
"No, father."
"Or," continued Mr. Loyd with rising temper, "a spouting whale, an Old
Bailey barrister, a town-crier, a grampus, a locomotive blowing off
steam, an Australian bell-bird, or a laughing jackass?"
"I'm sure I never laugh, so you needn't fling that at me."
"I wish you were dumb as well as deaf," groaned Mr. Loyd.
"Why?"
"Because I might then get you into the asylum."
"File 'em," muttered Joseph. "He's still thinking of the bills."
"Confound him," muttered his father. "He's worse than a county court
judgment. I don't know what to do with him."
To soothe his nerves he lighted a cigar, and looking in the fire puffed
away at the weed, while Joe again took up the paper and went on reading.
Half-an-hour passed.
Then Mr. Loyd said, "You know you're getting worse, but you're so
obstinate you won't admit it, and it's six to four you'll not yield."
Joseph looked up with irritating calmness.
"No, thanks," he exclaimed.
"What do you mean?"
"I never bet."
"Who talked about betting?" yelled his father.
"You offered six to four on the field, and----"
"I didn't. Yah!"
"Never mind; I sha'n't take you," replied Joseph.
Mr. Loyd got up and did a war dance.
"Who asked you to?"
"You did. It only wants six weeks to the Derby, and----"
Mr. Loyd lost all control over himself for the moment. He took up the
coal-scuttle and threw it at his son, which was a very reprehensible
thing to do; but it did not hurt Joseph, for that intelligent youth saw
it coming, and ducking his head, it went with a crash through the window
into the street.
"That's a clever thing to do," said Joseph, without so much as winking.
"You need not get mad because I won't bet."
His father shook his fist at him.
"You'll be my death," he replied, sinking into a chair with a gasp.
"I can't help it if I am deaf," rejoined the imperturbable Joseph.
"You're sharper than a serpent's tooth."
"It wasn't very sharp of you to break the window."
"Go to Putney!"
"Where am I to get putty?" said Joseph. "Send for a glazier."
"Bless us and save us!" groaned Mr. Loyd.
"There isn't much saving in having a broken window to catch cold by."
Mr. Loyd rushed into the hall, and taking down his hat and coat from the
rack, put them on.
"Come up to town at once," he exclaimed; "we'll go and see Mr.
Maybrick."
"What's the good of a hayrick?" asked Joseph simply.
"Eh?"
"You can't stop a hole in a window with a hayrick."
"I said Maybrick, the broker," roared Mr. Loyd, putting his hands to his
mouth.
"I do wish you'd speak out."
"Get a trumpet. Yah!"
"Trump it! we're not playing whist."
"Oh dear!" sighed Mr. Loyd. "He must be apprenticed to Maybrick. I'll
pay a premium if it's a hundred pounds. I'm not a hog, and don't want to
enjoy this all by myself. I'll share it with another. It's too much for
one to struggle with. I can't undertake the worry single-handed, it's
too much."
He had to go close up to Joseph and bawl in his ear to make him
understand what he wanted, for he had never found his son's deafness so
bad as it was that day.
Joseph was quite willing to go, and quitting the house, they took the
train and went to town together.
It was yet early in the day, and they reached the broker's office about
twelve, finding him in and at leisure. During the journey, Mr. Loyd had
impressed upon Joseph the necessity of keeping his ears open as well as
he could, for if he made any mistakes he would soon get "chucked," as
they say in the City, and Joe promised to be as wideawake as his
infirmity would permit him.
How wideawake this was, we shall see.
Mr. Maybrick had done business with Mr. Loyd for many years, and
received him in his private office with all the cordiality of an old
friend.
"Brought my boy to introduce to you," exclaimed the retired grocer.
"Very glad to know the young gentleman," replied Mr. Maybrick; "take a
chair. Have a cigar. Quite a chip of the old block, I see; what's his
name?"
"Joseph. Joe for short."
"Very good; now what can I do for you, are you going to open stock?"
"Not to-day."
"Markets are very firm."
"I didn't come for that purpose, Maybrick; I want to get the youngster
into your office."
"Oh! yes," answered the broker, "I forgot; you spoke about it a little
while ago."
"Last time I was up, when I bought those 'Russians'!"
"Against my advice, and burnt your fingers over them."
"True."
"Well, I'll take him. One hundred pounds premium, no salary first year,
then seventy pounds and an annual rise according to ability."
"That will do."
"I hope he's smart."
"Smart as a steel trap, though sometimes he's a little absent-minded;
and you've got to speak loudly, maybe more than once, but that's only
now and again. I'll write you a cheque and leave him here, so that he
will know the ropes."
"Very well, I daresay we shall get on. I've ten clerks, and I've only
changed once in ten years."
"That speaks well for you."
"I read character, and I'm kind," said Mr. Maybrick. "Sit at my table,
you'll find pen and ink."
While Mr. Loyd was getting out his cheque-book and writing the draft,
Mr. Maybrick turned his attention to his new clerk.
"Have you ever been out before?" he queried.
"Go out of the door?" replied Joe. "Yes sir, if you want to say anything
of a private nature, I'll go with pleasure."
"No! no! do you understand work?"
"I beg your pardon, I sha'n't shirk anything."
"Bless me!" cried the broker, "I mean do you know business?"
"No business," answered Joseph, with a solemn shake of the head; "I am
sorry for that; times are dull though, all round."
"I've got plenty, you mistake me, don't run away with that idea, you
won't find this an easy place."
"Got a greasy face, have I?" responded Joseph. "It's not very polite of
you to tell me that."
"What the----" began Mr. Maybrick, when Joe's father handed him the
cheque.
"There's the needful," exclaimed Mr. Loyd.
"Thanks," replied the broker, adding, "I say, old friend isn't Master
Joseph a little hard of hearing?"
"Oh! ah! not that exactly."
"What then?"
"He's got a cold in his head."
"Is that all?"
"Yes, he got his feet wet," said Mr. Loyd confidentially, "and I had to
bawl at him this morning."
"I thought he was, ahem! a little deaf."
"Bless you no, raise your voice, that's all you've got to do."
"Ah! I see. It's bad to be like that," answered Mr. Maybrick, whose
doubts were removed. "The weather's been so bad, everyone has had cold
more or less."
Telling the intelligent Joseph that he should expect him home to dinner
at seven, Mr. Loyd took leave of the broker, who gave his new clerk some
accounts to enter in a book, saying that he might sit in his office for
the remainder of that day and he would find him desk-room on the morrow,
after which he hurried away to see what was going on in the general
room.
Joseph hung up his hat and coat, and set to work. He certainly meant to
do his best. They say a certain place, which the Hebrews call Sheol, is
paved with good intentions; anyhow the fates were against him. Never
before had his deafness been so bad. It seemed to have swooped down upon
and swamped him all at once.
Scarcely had he begun his work than he was startled by the ringing of a
bell.
It was just over his head and proceeded from the telephone.
Now Joseph knew just as much about a telephone as he did about the
phonograph or the dot-and-dash system of telegraphy.
He sprang from his chair, turned ghastly pale, and fancied it was an
alarm of fire.
What should he do?
For fully a minute he stood gazing vacantly at the box and the bell.
Then it rang again.
Joseph jumped half-a-foot in the air.
Then he rushed into the general room, where he found Mr. Maybrick
talking to a client.
"Please sir, can I disturb you for a moment?" he said.
"I'm very particularly engaged, Loyd," replied the broker.
"Excuse me, but----"
"What is it?"
"There's a bell ringing."
"Oh! the telephone. I forgot to tell you to attend to it."
"It's rung twice."
"Then somebody is in a hurry. Answer and come and tell me what it is."
"How do you do it, sir?"
"Speak through the instrument, ask who it is, and what he wants, and put
the tube to your ear."
The fright had somewhat stimulated Joseph's powers of hearing, for he
caught these instructions and hastened back to the inner office. After a
little experimenting he put himself in communication, and the following
colloquy ensued.
"Who is it?" asked Joe.
"Oliphant," was the reply.
"Elephant," mused Joe. "That's funny."
But he went at it again.
"What do you want?"
"By one o'clock, sell 10,000 Mex. Rails."
Joe heard this order imperfectly.
"Buy 10,000 ox-tails," he said to himself. "This is a queer business."
Yet he was not discouraged.
Joe had not come into the City for nothing. He meant to do his duty or
perish in the attempt.
"Right," he answered. "Is that all?"
"Yes. I'll call after lunch for the contract note."
"Very well, sir."
Having received his instructions, Joe, very proud of his success in
manipulating such a peculiar instrument as the telephone, sought his
employer.
"Well, Loyd," exclaimed that gentleman.
"It's all right, sir," replied Joe.
"What is?"
"The elephant wants you to buy him 10,000 ox-tails."
Mr. Maybrick elevated his eyebrows.
"Who did you say?" he demanded in a loud voice.
"The elephant."
"Mr. Oliphant, I suppose you mean."
"Ah! it might have been Oliphant, or Boliphant, it was something like
that."
"Ox-tails. Why not Mex. Rails.? Mexican Railways, you know."
"Humph," said Joe, "very likely."
"Are you sure he said 'buy?'"
"Oh! yes, sir, that was distinct enough, and he said he'd come after
lunch for the distracting note."
"Contract note."
"It may be that. The gentleman did not speak very distinctly."
"Oliphant has a low voice," said Mr. Maybrick, thoughtfully, "but he's
one of my best customers. Perhaps he's heard something; he must have got
some information. I'll have a bit in this myself. Oliphant is a very
shrewd and careful speculator. That will do, Loyd."
Joseph departed, highly delighted.
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Mr. Maybrick when Joe had gone, "my new clerk is
an odd one; 'Buy 10,000 ox-tails for the elephant,' that's good. I must
tell that story in the House."
He beckoned to his manager, who was a man named Mappin, and told him to
buy the required quantity of Mexican railway stock.
"Market's very weak, sir. It's fallen to-day one half already in
anticipation of a bad dividend," replied Mappin.
"Can't help that."
Mappin went away to execute the order.
An hour elapsed, and a special edition of an evening paper was brought
into the office.
It contained a telegram from Mexico, stating that there had not been one
revolution, and two earthquakes in that country before breakfast, as
usual, that morning. The railway dividend was remarkably good, and
Mexican Preference Stock went up five per cent., at which price the
broker took upon himself to close the account, thinking his client would
be well satisfied with his profits.
"Clever fellow, Oliphant," muttered Mr. Maybrick; "up to every move on
the board. Deuced clever!"
At that moment Mr. Oliphant, who was a stout, red-faced man, inclined to
apoplexy, rushed into the office.
He was agitated, and looked as if he was going to have a fit.
"Close the account," he gasped.
"I have done so," was the reply.
"What at?"
"A rise of five per cent."
"It will ruin me," groaned Oliphant.
"How? you telephoned me to buy."
"I said 'sell.'"
"Then my clerk made a mistake," exclaimed Maybrick; "but it's a lucky
mistake for both you and I, for I followed your lead."
"You're joking!"
"Never was more serious in my life. I'll give you a cheque at once."
Mr. Oliphant's face brightened.
"And I'll give your wooden-headed clerk a ten pound note," he said.
"That may console him for his dismissal," said Maybrick, dryly.
"Are you going to get rid of him?"
"Most decidedly. I cannot afford to keep a clerk who makes errors of
that kind. This time it has come out all right; next time it may be all
wrong."
"Just so," replied Mr. Oliphant.
He handed Maybrick the ten pounds, which the broker gave to Mappin,
telling him to present it to Joseph, and inform him that his services
would not be any longer required, and the premium his father had paid
should be returned by post. Then the broker gave Mr. Oliphant his
unexpected profits, and they went out to have a bottle of champagne
together.
Mappin sought Joseph.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Doing sums," replied Joe, which was his idea of book-keeping.
"Well, you need not do any more."
"No, I don't think it a bore," said Joe. "It's all in the day's work,
don't you know?"
"You're not wanted here."
"Can't I hear? what do you know about it?"
"The fool's deaf," cried Mappin, raising his voice. "Take this tenner
and go."
Joe heard this plain enough.
"Sacked!" he said, laconically.
"Yes," replied Mappin, nodding his head vigorously.
"What for?"
"Playing the fool with the telephone. We've no use for you."
"Oh! very well. I thought I shouldn't answer."
"You see, we don't run our business on the silent system."
Joe put on his hat and coat, with that perfect unconcern which always
distinguished him.
"Good morning," he said, pocketing the note. "I say, I don't think much
of telephones, do you?"
"Yes, it's a very clever invention."
"Ah! there's no accounting for taste."
With these words Joseph quitted the office, and took a walk in the City.
(_From_ "AWFUL STORIES," _by permission of_ Messrs. DIPROSE &
BATEMAN.)
THE LADY FREEMASON.
H. T. CRAVEN.
Vainly we seek it, Sanscrit or Greek writ
In hist'ry, the myst'ry of Solomon's secret:--
The dark queen of Sheba p'raps tried to get hold of it,
But didn't; at least if she _did_, we're not told of it.
If McAbel of Lodge number one lets it slip,
His brother O'Cain of Lodge two, gives the grip
_A la garotte_ they say. Be that as it may,
The Cowan is somehow put out of the way.
So now if you've fear for my prudence, dispel it;
First place, I don't know--next, I don't mean to tell it
But praise a shrewd guess, if you think I deserve it,
The cream of the secret is--_how to preserve it_!
A sworn brother mason who'd ever disseminate
His knowledge, or blab, would be worse than effeminate!
On feminine weakness, though, let me be reticent,
Rememb'ring the tale of the famous Miss Betty St.
Ledger, whose name sheds a permanent grace on
One fifty--the Lodge of the Lady Freemason.
My Lord Doneraile, Ne'er known to fail
In duties masonic, held land in entail
With a mansion near Dublin, of such wide dimension,
That a Freemason's Lodge of no little pretension
Was warranted, charter'd, and duly appointed,
And worshipful ruler my lord was anointed.
No master, 'twas said, ever laid down the law so;
No masons kept secrets so sacred--or swore so!
None drill'd and so skill'd were, in sep'rate degree,
By the P. M. presiding (of course my Lord D.)
It beggars description--you'd fail to appreciate
The hubbub within when they met to '_initiate_.'
Such tyling and tapping, Such knocking and rapping,
Such shrieks and such squeaks--such clapping and slapping
Such mauling and hauling and tearing and swearing,
Such whisp'ring of secrets and 'tell-if-you-dare'-ing--
Such groans and such yells, And such roast-goosey smells,
When the poker was used--like the scene in 'The Bells'
You doubtless have thought so appalling--enerving--
You'd think 'twas some madman, who thought himself Irving;
The cauterization, On good information,
Amounted, I say, to a partial cremation;
And sore on the subject were all Erin's gay sons
Next day, when the boys gave 'em sauce for 'fried masons.'
Be it known that Miss Betty was Doneraile's daughter,
And one Richard Aldworth aspired to court her,
Yet made his advances with progress so scanty,
He really remain'd much _in statu quo ante_;
His motto was '_Spero_,' But hope was at zero;
In the lady's eye Dick didn't pose as a hero
When her father, Lord Doneraile, ask'd of him, whether
He'd join the F.M.'s; he had shown the white feather!
Whereat the proud beauty declared that no other
Should e'er be _her_ slave than 'a man and a _brother_':
So Dick, having dined, and not quite _compos mentis_,
Agreed to go in for an 'entered apprentice.'
The eve had arrived, and the hall so baronial,
Was deck'd in due form for the night's ceremonial;
Miss Betty, in passing downstairs, chanced to see
Tho' the Chubb had been lock'd, they had left in the key
Of a small ante-room of some minor utility,
But prized by the Lodge for its accessibility:
Miss said to herself, 'Tho' I fear the attempt, I
Should like just to see what a Lodge is like--empty!'
Oh! daughters of Eve, There are some who believe
Your tongues are your weakness--your failing, verbosity;
While others contend, You'll never amend
Of that fault Mrs. Bluebeard possess'd--curiosity!
Now I--though I'd fain dub such slanders as petty--
Own they do say as much of dear, charming Miss Betty:
Tho' found to be equal, To hold tongue or speak well
With other good masons--but wait for the sequel!
In through this outer door--closing it warily;
Out through an inner door--softly and fairyly--
_She's there!_ In the Lodge, where wax tapers are blazing,
All deftly arranged with precision amazing:--
In the east for the Worshipful Boss is a throne.
In the west, Senior Warden--the places all shown
(No doubt to prevent any squabbles or wrangles)
Initiall'd on chair-backs, in gilded triangles;
On a table deep myst'ries we must not unravel--
The Mallet, the Plumb, and the Gauge, and the Gavel!
Other engines whose uses we fear to unriddle--
The Thumb-screw--the Pincers--a Poker--a Griddle!
With tapers and papers and paraphernalia,
Blue ribbons and jewels and things call'd 'Regalia!'
The silence and solitude there were delicious;
And any one caring to feel superstitious,
Might fancy the ghosts of freemasons, translated
To Lodges above--or below--reinstated,
Array'd in their mouldy old aprons; each brother
Past Master, who'd passed from this world to another.
But horror of horrors! whilst here she was musing,
Came footsteps without, and--oh! sound most confusing!
She heard the key turned. (That same key that beguiled
In the first-mention'd door.) _Now_ 'twas lock'd and fast tyled!
She rush'd to the ante-room, wild to get back,
But this cooled her courage, 'twas now _cul de sac_;
And hark! In the Lodge--to augment her disaster--
The Masons assembling, escorting the Master!
To hide while she thought how to 'scape from mishap,
She closed t'other door of this snug little trap;
That door has a crevice, and thereby new woes arise,
To secrets forbidden in vain 'tis to close her eyes;
How can she but note the masonic particulars,
With no cotton-wool to cram in her auriculars?
She heard her dad ask, most distinctly--and trembled
At Dogberry's words--"Are we here all dissembled?"
Then commenced ceremonials misty and mystical,
Questions and answers in form catechistical.
My lord, in a tone both emphatic and sonorous,
Impressing on each that his duties were onerous;
(One duty, to Betty, seem'd highly improper--
'Twas 'kill, without questioning, any eavesdropper!')
When the master, with sudden and well-feigned dismay,
For he very well knew that he'd got it to say,
Cried 'Hark, there is danger, I feel that a stranger
Who's seeking for knowledge is coming this way!'
Each took up a napkin--the end dipt in water,
And cried '_Porkitotius!_ Give him no quarter!'
While outside the door sundry knocks loud and clamorous
(As Vulcan might deal when in humour sledge-hammerous)
Were echoed within by three knocks--just the same,
With the pertinent query--'How now! What's your game?'
And a chap (_deshabille_) in great perturbation
Is 'run in,' very much like a prig to a station.
Disguised as he was, through the _a-propos_ hole
The lady identified Aldworth's red poll,
And thought, 'Well, I wish you, poor fellow, good luck,
Or--more to the purpose--I wish you, good pluck!'
For her father was urging in solemn oration,
'You need, my young friend, for your fearful probation
Endurance--true Courage--and strong Veneration!
We commence with (don't grin, sir!) a pleasant frivolity:--
Just give of Endurance a taste of your quality;
'Tis nothing--a towelling. Brothers, prepare!'
Then each had a flick at Dick's legs--which were bare:
He danced and he pranced at each cut of the towel
And prod from the rear with a sharp-pointed trowel,
And look'd--as he caper'd in lily-white kilt--
The ghost of a Highlander dancing a lilt.
To Scotch eyes, however, The steps might seem clever,
Dick show'd less a hero in Betty's than ever,
And shock'd, when he cried--cutting up rather rough--
'D longstroke your optics--hold hard! That's enough!'
'Enough?' said the worshipful, 'Yes, of this fun!
Stern proof of your courage has not yet begun;
D'ye hear, sir, those knocks? Brothers, let in the stoker,
And form a procession to bring in the poker!
See the surgeon is ready to make all secure
With lancet and tourniquet, bandage and ligature!'
But why freeze your marrow--Your feelings why harrow?
Your hearts are too soft and our space is too narrow
To tell all the horrors! 'Twould fill you with awe
To listen to half that Elizabeth saw:--
Let us come to Dick's howl--such a howl!--which as soon
As she heard it, Miss Betty fell down in a swoon
All in a lump, With a bump and a thump
That made all the brothers to gape and to jump.
And turn pale and cry, 'Bedad there's a spy
Shut up in that closet, and there he shall die!
To rush to the chamber--to find what was in it
And seize the eavesdropper--was the work of a minute;
To lift up and shake her, To rouse up and wake her
To consciousness--then in the Lodge-room to take her,
Was work for six brothers, who cried as they brought her,
'We've sought her and caught her!' My lord cried, 'My daughter!'
And sunk down as needing, himself, a supporter:--
In rush'd the tylers, Crusty old file-ers!
With anger 'a busting their blessed old bilers;'
Looking so grim at her, One raised his cimeter,
And to very short shift was advancing to limit her,
As 'Hold!' cried my lord, 'Hear your master--or rather,
I'd speak to you all, as her judge--not her father!
Perchance she knows nothing, and, if she will swear it,
Her life shall be spared--_I_, your _Master_, will spare it!
Oh, tell me, my child, what you've seen--what you've heard?'
The truthful girl sobb'd, 'Ev'ry act! ev'ry word!'
'Alas,' faltered he, 'you have seal'd your own doom!'
And 'Down with the spy!' cried each one in the room;
One raised a dagger, Some shouted 'Scrag her!'
Some raised a trap-door, and rush'd forward to drag her,
When a voice like a thunder-clap topp'd all the rest,
And Dick semi-dress'd Presented his breast
Before her, 'Strike _here_!' was his manly request:
'Strike me if you dare, By jingo, I swear
Of her you shall touch not so much as a hair!
I mean, my good sirs, Whatever occurs
To your lives or mine, you shall not take _hers_!
Her white arm how dare you place finger or fist on?'
And Dick, shooting out his own arm like a piston,
Knock'd over a senior warden who held her;
Sent spinning a middle-aged junior--his elder,
Hit out at a tyler, A blatant reviler,
Mash'd the mug of a masher call'd 'Tim' the Beguiler;
'Look out!' cried another, 'The Saxon's a bruiser!'
And straightway got one on his 'conk'--a confuser!
A dozen unitedly Shouted excitedly
'Fell him, or else this young fellow will wallop us!'
Down went two deacons, Not very weak ones,
And a blow on the nose of the third burst a polypus,
When the hero (Dick now at the title arrives,
Denied him before he had handled his fives,
So many bawling, Reeling and sprawling,
For each brother knocked down another in falling),
Had 'flutter'd the Voices' from east to the west,
He paused like a warrior taking his rest,
Or Spartan who'd caused lots of Persians to topple, he
Took breath--as _he_ did at a place call'd Thermopylae.
Now outspoke my lord in a masterful way,
'A truce and a parley! I've something to say!
'Tis writ in our laws "If an eavesdropper pries
And filches our secrets, he (mark the HE!) dies!"
Now this is a _she_--therefore _not_ an eavesdropper;
To kill her, I say, would be highly improper
Unless she objects. To do as directs
The master (c'est moi!). Now mark what I say next!
Let's make her a mason, And put a good face on
The matter, believing she'll prove not a base one;
I'll take on myself--ending doubt and confusion--
To write to Great Queen Street and get absolution!'
Then upspake the stoker--A regular croaker,
'I'd like to know how you'll get over the poker!'
'Long ago,' said my lord---the precise _annus mundi_
'I can't call to mind--_regno Coli Jucundi_,
(A monarch whose province was Pipo-cum-Fiddlum--
A part of the region of Great Tarrididdlom)
Sundry by-laws were pass'd for emergencies various
Whereby the submission to brand is vicarious:
Will some volunteer (_Her_ substitute here)
Submit to the crucial test? 'Tis severe!'
Dick on now spake, 'E'en to the stake
'I'll go, like a martyr, as proxy to take
All over again for the dear lady's sake;--
That is (here he tenderly glanced), she approving?'
'I do!' said the maiden, in accent quite loving.
'Agreed!' shouted all who'd been punch'd, 'Be it so!'
Glad, no doubt, of the chance to give Dick _quid pro quo_.
The lady withdrew, in well-guarded condition;
The deck's quickly clear'd for the second edition
Of flicks and of kicks, Pinching and licks,
Twingeing and singeing--but murmur of Dick's
None heard e'en a word; he was truly heroic,
And went through it all with a smile, like a stoic;
And when he--so rumpled from processes recent--
Retired to make himself decently decent,
Miss St. Ledger return'd--resolution her face on--
Took the oaths, and was enter'd a 'Prenticed Freemason!
Moral.
When you meet with a mason, just mention this lass;
I warrant she'll prove an excuse for a glass!
If he's a true brother, the toast is a favourite,
He's good for a bottle, but mind _you_ don't pay for it!
You've but to edge her Name in, and pledge her,
The Lady Freemason--MISS BETTY ST. LEDGER!
(_By permission of the Author._)
WHAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT!
_From the French of M. Charles Monselet, by_ F. B. HARRISON.
I cannot deceive myself--I was horribly tipsy last night. Let him who
has never been in the like case throw the first empty bottle at me!
How did it happen? In this way. I, a civilian, reading law, was invited
to dine at the garrison mess. I had never been at a similar
entertainment, and I cannot but think, now that I look back on it, that
the officers played some trick on me. I only knew that they were
prodigiously polite, which always looks suspicious. From a certain
point, from the third course, I remember very little; a sort of cloudy
curtain intercepts the view like the curtains that come down in a
pantomime, and I don't know whether I was Clown, or Pantaloon, or
Columbine.
Yet something must have happened to me, a great many things. I've been
sleeping in my white tie; and then my face! What a shockingly yellow,
dissipated face! Upon my word, it is a pretty affair! At my time,
one-and-twenty, to be overcome by wine like a schoolboy out for a
holiday!
I cannot express what I think of it.
How am I to know what happened last night? Ask my landlady? No; I cannot
let her see how ashamed I am. Besides, she would only know the condition
in which I came home; and that I can guess.
They say that from a single bone Professor Owen can reconstruct an
entire antediluvian animal; I must try and do something similar to
reconstruct my existence during the last twelve or fourteen hours. I
must get hold of two or three clues.
Where can I find them?
In my pockets, perhaps.
Since I was a small boy I have always had the habit of stuffing them
with all manner of things. Now, this is the time for me to search them.
I tremble. What shall I find?
[_Searches his waistcoat pocket._
I have gently insinuated two fingers into my waistcoat-pocket,
and have brought out my purse. Empty! Hang it!
[_Lifts his overcoat from the floor._
On picking up my overcoat I have found my pocket-book, half open, and
the papers fallen from it on the carpet.
The first of these papers which catches my eye is the _carte_ of last
night's dinner. Well, who was there? How many of us? Several of the
fellows I knew, of course; but which of them? Happy thought! The _menu_
will remind me of their various tastes and reveal their names to me.
'Oysters.' Well, I know that the Colonel is a tremendous hand at
oysters, so I am sure he was there.
'Mulligatawny.' That is Captain Simpkin's soup, or rather liquid fire,
so Simpkins was there. Two of them.
'Roast Beef.' Makes me think of little Dumerque, the Jersey man, who
wants to be a thorough Englishman. He was there.
'Saddle of Mutton.' Tom Horsley, the inveterate steeple-chaser.
'Charlotte Russe.' That is Ned Walker, who published his travels from
"Peterborough to Petersburg." Now I know pretty well who some of my
fellow-guests were. As for the others----
[_Picks up some photographs._
Hallo! were there women at the mess? No, certainly not. Then we must
have talked of women, and the men must have given me photographs of
their female relatives. Strange thing to do! especially as I don't know
the ladies. Here's an ancient and fish-like personage in a blue jersey.
Dumerque's grandmother, I'll be bound. Here a stout, middle-aged dame,
widow probably. I know Simpkins wants to marry a widow, but why give me
her portrait?
And this--this is charming! Quite in the modern style--low forehead,
small nose, tiny mouth, all eyes, and what splendid eyes! and such
lashes! She is fair, as well as one can judge from a photograph. And the
little curls on her forehead are like rings of gold. And so young, a
mere child. A lovely figure; our forefathers would have compared her to
a rose-tree, but then our forefathers were not strong in similes. She
has neither ear-rings nor necklace; perhaps that gives her that look of
disdain. Disdain! she knows nothing yet of life, but tries to seem tired
of it. They are all like that.
Who is she? She must be the Colonel's daughter; I've heard that his
daughter is a pretty girl. I must have expressed my warm admiration of
the photograph, and he must have responded by giving it to me. Did I ask
him for her hand? Did he refuse it? or did he put off his reply? Perhaps
that was why I drank too much.
Now let me proceed. What further happened? Let me continue my
researches.
[_Tries the pockets of his overcoat._
By Jingo! Two visiting cards! The first says:
"Captain Wellington Spearman,
FIRST ROYAL LANCER DRAGOONS."
The other:
"Major Garnet Babelock Cannon,
RIFLE ARTILLERY."
Now, what does it all mean? I do not know those military gentlemen. They
must have been guests like myself. How do I come to have their cards?
There must have been some dispute, some quarrel, some row. These two
cards must have been given in exchange for two of mine.
It all comes back to me!
A duel--perhaps two duels!
But duels about what? Whom did I affront? I know I'm an awful fire-eater
when I've drank too much. But was I the challenger or the challenged? I
think my left cheek is rather swollen as if from a blow; but that is
mere fancy. What dreadful follies have I got myself into?
I can make out some pencil marks on the first card, that of the Captain
in the Lancer Dragoons. Yes. "Ten o'clock, behind St. Martin's Church."
Ah, a hostile meeting, that is clear. I must run, perhaps I shall be in
time.
No, too late; it is half-past eleven.
I am dishonoured, branded as a coward! No one will believe me when I say
that I had a headache, and overslept myself on the morning of a duel.
I have no energy to look further in my pocket. Still, one never
knows----
[_Brings out a handkerchief._
A handkerchief--a very fine one--thin cambric. But it is not one of
mine. There is a coronet in the corner. How did I come by this
handkerchief? Could I have stolen it? I seem to be on the road to the
county gaol.
Oh, how my head aches!
A flower is in my button-hole. How did it come there? Forget-me-nots;
their blue eyes closed, all withered and drooping. I could not have
bought so humble a bouquet at the flower-shop; it must have been given
me. It was given me, it came to me from the fair one with golden curls.
Her father gave it to me from her, knowing that I was about to risk my
life--to risk my life for her sake, no doubt.
Yes, that is it. My fears increase. I dread to know more. I am afraid to
prosecute my researches in my pockets. I may find my hands full of
forget-me-nots--or of blood!
Oh! ah! by jove!
What now?
This overcoat is not mine. No, mine is dark grey, this is light grey. I
have not travelled through my pockets, but through the pockets of
somebody else.
But then--if the coat is not mine, neither is the duel.
Not mine the _carte_.
Not mine the photographs.
Not mine the forget-me-nots.
Not mine the cards.
I have not stolen the handkerchief.
I am all right; thank goodness I am all right!
And my romance about the Colonel's lovely daughter--I am sorry about it,
upon my word. At least, I am sorry for her, for I fear now she will
never make my acquaintance.
(_By permission of_ MESSRS. R. BENTLEY & SON.)
THE FATAL LEGS.
WALTER BROWNE.
I am an actor, or rather, I call myself one. I am, however,
"disengaged;" the more so since Widow Walker has----. But let me not
anticipate; which, by-the-bye, I never could have done--no matter. I
took apartments, comfortably furnished, with a widow lady named Walker.
I was "first floor back"; and "first floor front" was Mr. Simon Simpkin,
of the ---- Theatre. The widow always called us "first floors," either
"back" or "front," and never by our names, although we never called her
out of hers. If we had, she would not have come. She was an obstinate
woman, but at times she got confused. She always called me in the
morning, and once she called me "front," and then went to Simpkin with
my shaving water. When I called her back, she called me something else,
and threw the pitcher at me. I was in hot water for a while.
The Widow Walker was fair, fat, and forty--that is, rather fair,
extremely fat, and very forty. She might be more; at any rate her voice
was forte too. The actor, Simpkin, was fragile and long. He played heavy
parts, which possibly was the cause of his constant complaint that he
had not got his share of "fat." Although lengthy, he was even less in
his various diameters than I was, still I longed for his length. And
why? The Widow Walker wallowed in wealth untold, and I could see she
smiled upon the suit of Simon Simpkin. Well she might. It was
second-hand. He, too, was a widower, or rather, he would have been if
his wife had lived. I mean, if she had lived to be his wife. But she
didn't. She died before the fatal knot was tied; in fact, it was not
tied at all. No matter, he had loved before, while my suit was brand
new. I determined to try it on. I longed to win the widow for my wife--I
should say for myself. One day I saw the actor kiss her through the
keyhole. We were rivals from that moment--at least I was. He didn't see
me, or he would have been one too; I mean one also. That is to say there
would have been two of us, whereas there was only one of me--no matter.
The widow went a good deal to the theatre. She ordered him, and he gave
her orders--that is, "passes for two." He knew her size. She always took
"twos" in seats. He did the villains at the theatre, while I did the
hero at home. He bellowed in blank verse, while I blew the kitchen fire
with the bellows. He mashed her, while I mashed the potatoes for supper.
But I determined to beard the clean-shaved lion in his lair. In short,
or rather, at length, I obtained an engagement, and became an actor. My
rival and myself now stood on the same footing. I mean we should have
done, only, in a word, we didn't. Simon Simpkin, as before observed,
indeed observed anyhow, was slender as a willow wand, and appropriately
pliable, especially about the legs. Still, on the stage, his nether
limbs looked round and well proportioned. His calves might pass for
cows, and his knees were second elbows, or rather, "Elba's"--they held a
bony part in exile.
On the other hand--I should say legs--my tights were always loose, and
while the widow smiled on his understanding, she smiled _at_ mine. I
thirsted for my hated rival's blood, or rather for his flesh, more
correctly speaking, for the shape of his legs--technically, for his
"leg-shapes." Having failed in an attempt to have his blood by means of
a darning-needle, I determined to go for his shapes. I went for them one
night before the performance. I went to his dressing-room and got them.
That night the Widow Walker was in front. I was desperate. I was
determined that she should see her Simpkin in all his naked--I should
say his unpadded--deformity, and that mine--that is, my limbs--should be
resplendent in his borrowed plumes. But alas, all my plans--and
myself--were violently overthrown--by Simpkin.
I had merely insinuated one leg in the woolly pads, when he insinuated
another somewhere else. We argued the matter all over my dressing-room.
Meanwhile, time jogged merrily along. The curtain was raised, and so
were we eventually; but unfortunately I had only retained one half of
those precious pads. The right was left on my leg, but Simpkin had
carried off the left leg all right! What was I to do? My left leg would
not look right, or if it did, my right would be wrong. There was no
time, however, for consideration, as my face required sponging before
applying the sticking-plaster, and eventually I had to hobble on to the
stage with two odd understandings--that is, one odd one and one even
one. Even that was odd, which appears odd--no matter.
Fortunately I went on from the O.P. side, which enabled me to put my
best leg foremost. In the centre of the stage I met Simpkin, who had
entered from the prompt side. The widow gazed with rapture on us both,
until, oh, horror! after a short scene it was necessary that each of us
should retire to the place from whence we came. We advanced towards it,
backwards, and mutually stumbling, our other legs became exposed to
view. A yell from the audience, the sack from the management, and a
week's notice from the widow, subsequently greeted us. Besides which,
Simpkin and myself are not on the best of terms. We get into argument
when we meet in the streets. I stay at home a good deal now.
(_By permission of the Author._)
THE CALIPH'S JESTER.
(FROM THE ARABIC.)
On a _musnud_ of state was reclining the Caliph, the Mighty Haroun;
His brow like the sun it was shining, his face it was like the full moon,
And his courtiers around him were standing, like stars in an indigo sky,
And the _saki_ the wine-cup was handing--for the monarch, though pious,
was dry.
And the poets their works were reciting in Arabic numbers divine,
The hearts of all hearers delighting with verses like Afdhal's or mine.
Then the Caliph glared round the assembly, as a lion glares round on the
herd,
And the knees of the courtiers grew trembly, and their hearts fluttered
e'en as a bird;
And cold drops were distilled from each forehead, and each tongue to its
palate did cling,
For their fear of their Caliph was horrid--he was such a passionate king!
At length in a voice that with passion was shaking, it pleased him to
speak:--
"Does he know whom he treats in this fashion? Did you e'er behold aught
like his cheek?
"This poet, this jester, this chaffer, this pig's son, this bullock,
this ass,
This black-hearted, black-visaged Kaffir, this Infidel, ABU NUWAS!"
"I bade him come hither to meet us, in this serious Council of State;
And this is the way he dares treat us. Ye dogs, he is five minutes late!"
Then the heart of his Highness relented; Rashid was of changeable mood;
"Maybe he's been somehow prevented; to get in a rage does no good.
"His jests, too, are always so pleasant, one somehow his impudence
stands;
Besides, poor Mesrour just at present has plenty of work on his hands.
"But although I can't perfectly tame him till he goes to the Nita to
school,
At least I can thoroughly shame him, and make him appear like a fool.
"Slaves, fetch me some eggs--not new laid--you can find some stale ones
that will do.
Now execute quick what I bade you, or else I will execute _you_."
They brought him the eggs in a charger, all studded with many a pearl,
The same pattern--though just a bit larger--as that of Herodias' girl;
And the Caliph took one egg, and hid it away in his cushion, which done,
He bade them all do so. They did it; and sat down awaiting the fun.
With an air that was saucy and braggish, with a step that was jaunty and
spruce,
With a smile that was merry and waggish, with a mien that was reckless
and loose,
With a "How is your high disposition to-morrow, if God should so will?"
With a "Here in our ancient position, your Majesty seeth us still!"
With a face all be-chalked and be-painted, with a bound through the
portal doth pass
One with whom we're already acquainted, the world-renowned Abu Nuwas!
"Right welcome! Right welcome! my brother!" his Majesty smilingly spake,
"We were just now in want of another, a nice game at forfeits to make.
"Whatever I do you must watch it, and each do precisely the same--
If I catch you chaps laughing you'll catch it! sit still and attend to
the game.
"If you do just as I do, precisely, a _dinar_ apiece shall ye gain,
If you don't, won't I give it you nicely--Mesrour you stand by with the
cane!"
He spake: and the smile on his features was mischievous, cunning and
grim,
And the courtiers, poor awe-stricken creatures, smiled feebly and gazed
upon him.
"Cluck, cluck, cluck aroo!" representing the note of a jubilant hen,
The Caliph arises, presenting an egg, to the sight of all men.
"Cluck, cluck, cluck aroo!" and the rabble are all at once up on their
legs,
And with ornithological gabble display their mysterious eggs.
Then without in the least hesitating steps Abu Nuwas before all.
"Cock-a-doodle doo doo!" imitating a rooster's hilarious call.
"Now I know why it is that you cackle," said he, "when you're trying
to talk!
And you find me a hard one to tackle, because I am COCK OF THE WALK!"
(_From_ "TEMPLE BAR," _by permission of the Editor_.)
A JOURNEY IN SEARCH OF NOTHING.
WILKIE COLLINS.
"Yes," said the doctor, pressing the tips of his fingers with a
tremulous firmness on my pulse, and looking straight forward into the
pupils of my eyes, "yes, I see: the symptoms all point unmistakeably
towards one conclusion--Brain. My dear sir, you have been working too
hard; you have been following the dangerous example of the rest of the
world in this age of business and bustle. Your brain is over-taxed--that
is your complaint. You must let it rest--there is your remedy."
"You mean," I said, "that I must keep quiet, and do Nothing?"
"Precisely so," replied the doctor. "You must not read or write; you
must abstain from allowing yourself to be excited by society; you must
have no annoyances; you must feel no anxieties; you must not think; you
must be neither elated nor depressed; you must keep early hours and take
an occasional tonic, with moderate exercise, and a nourishing but not
too full a diet--above all, a perfect repose is essential to your
restoration, you must go away into the country, taking any direction you
please, and living just as you like, as long as you are quiet and as
long as you do Nothing."
"I presume he is not to go away into the country without ME," said my
wife, who was present at the interview.
"Certainly not," rejoined the doctor, with an acquiescent bow. "I look
to your influence, my dear madam, to encourage our patient in following
my directions. It is unnecessary to repeat them, they are so extremely
simple and easy to carry out. I will answer for your husband's recovery
if he will but remember that he has now only two objects in life--to
keep quiet, and to do Nothing."
My wife is a woman of business habits. As soon as the doctor had taken
his leave, she produced her pocket-book, and made a brief abstract of
his directions for our future guidance. I looked over her shoulder and
observed that the entry ran thus:--
"RULES FOR DEAR WILLIAM'S RESTORATION TO HEALTH.--No reading; no
writing; no excitement; no annoyance; no anxiety; no thinking. Tonic.
No elation of spirits. Nice dinners. No depression of spirits. Dear
William to take little walks (with me). To go to bed early. To get up
early. _N.B._--Keep him quiet. _Mem._ Mind he does Nothing."
Mind I do nothing? No need to mind that. I have not had a holiday since
I was a boy. Oh, blessed Idleness, after the years of merciless
industry that have separated us, are you and I to be brought together
again at last? Oh, my weary right hand, are you really to ache no longer
with driving the ceaseless pen? May I, indeed, put you in my pocket and
let you rest there, indolently, for hours together? Yes! for I am now,
at last, to begin--doing Nothing. Delightful task that performs itself!
Welcome responsibility that carries its weight away smoothly on its own
shoulders!
These thoughts shine in pleasantly on my mind after the doctor has taken
his departure, and diffuse an easy gaiety over my spirits when my wife
and I set forth, the next day, for the journey. We are not going the
round of the noisy watering-places, nor is it our intention to accept
any invitations to join the circles assembled by festive country
friends. My wife, guided solely by the abstract of the doctor's
directions in her pocket-book, has decided that the only way to keep me
absolutely quiet, and to make sure of my doing nothing, is to take me to
some pretty, retired village, and to put me up at a little primitive,
unsophisticated country inn. I offer no objection to this project--not
because I have no will of my own, and am not master of all my
movements--but only because I happen to agree with my wife. Considering
what a very independent man I am naturally, it has sometimes struck me,
as a rather remarkable circumstance, that I always do agree with her.
We find the pretty, retired village. A charming place, full of thatched
cottages, with creepers at the doors, like the first easy lessons in
drawing-masters' copy-books. We find the unsophisticated inn--just the
sort of house that the novelists are so fond of writing about, with the
snowy curtains, and the sheets perfumed by lavender, and the matronly
landlady, and the amusing signpost.
This Elysium is called the Nag's Head.
Can the Nag's Head accommodate us? Yes, with a delightful bedroom, and a
sweet parlour. My wife takes off her bonnet, and makes herself at home
directly. She nods her head at me with a look of triumph. "Yes, dear, on
this occasion also I quite agree with you. Here we have found perfect
quiet; here we may make sure of obeying the doctor's orders; here we
have at last discovered--Nothing."
Nothing! Did I say Nothing? We arrive at the Nag's Head late in the
evening, have our tea, go to bed tired with our journey, sleep
delightfully till about three o'clock in the morning, and, at that hour,
begin to discover that there are actually noises, even in this remote
country seclusion. They keep fowls at the Nag's Head; and at three
o'clock, the cock begins to crow, and the hen to cluck, under our
window. Pastoral, my dear, and suggestive of eggs for breakfast whose
reputation is above suspicion; but I wish these cheerful fowls did not
wake quite so early. Are there, likewise, dogs, love, at the Nag's
Head, and are they trying to bark down the crowing and clucking of the
cheerful fowls? I should wish to guard myself against the possibility of
making a mistake, but I think I hear three dogs. A shrill dog, who barks
rapidly; a melancholy dog, who howls monotonously; and a hoarse dog, who
emits barks at intervals, like minute guns. Is this going on long?
Apparently it is. My dear, if you will refer to your pocket-book, I
think you will find that the doctor recommended early hours. We will not
be fretful and complain of having our morning sleep disturbed; we will
be contented, and will only say that it is time to get up.
Breakfast. Delicious meal, let us linger over it as long as we can,--let
us linger, if possible, till the drowsy mid-day tranquillity begins to
sink over this secluded village.
Strange! but now I think of it again, do I, or do I not, hear an
incessant hammering over the way? No manufacture is being carried on in
this peaceful place, no new houses are being built; and yet, there is
such a hammering, that, if I shut my eyes, I can almost fancy myself in
the neighbourhood of a dock-yard. Waggons, too. Why does a waggon which
makes so little noise in London, make so much noise here? Is the dust on
the road detonating powder, that goes off with a report at every turn of
the heavy wheels? Does the waggoner crack his whip or fire a pistol to
encourage his horses? Children, next. Only five of them, and they have
not been able to settle for the last half-hour what game they shall play
at. On two points alone do they appear to be unanimous--they are all
agreed on making a noise, and on stopping to make it under our window. I
think I am in some danger of forgetting one of the doctor's directions;
I rather fancy I am actually allowing myself to be annoyed.
Let us take a turn in the garden, at the back of the house. Dogs again.
The yard is on one side of the garden. Every time our walk takes us near
it, the shrill dog barks, and the hoarse dog growls. The doctor tells me
to have no anxieties. I am suffering devouring anxieties. These dogs may
break loose and fly at us, for anything I know to the contrary, at a
moment's notice. What shall I do? Give myself a drop of tonic? or escape
for a few hours from the perpetual noises of this retired spot, by
taking a drive? My wife says, take a drive. I think I have already
mentioned that I invariably agree with my wife.
The drive is successful in procuring us a little quiet. My directions to
the coachman are to take us where he pleases, so long as he keeps away
from secluded villages. We suffer much jolting in by-lanes, and
encounter a great variety of bad smells. But a bad smell is a noiseless
nuisance, and I am ready to put up with it patiently. Towards dinner
time we return to our inn. Meat, vegetables, pudding, all excellent,
clean and perfectly cooked. As good a dinner as ever I wish to
eat;--shall I get a little nap after it? The fowls, the dogs, the
hammer, the children, the waggons, are quiet at last. Is there anything
else left to make a noise? Yes: there is the working population of the
place.
It is getting on towards evening, and the sons of labour are assembling
on the benches placed outside the inn, to drink. What a delightful scene
they would make of this homely everyday event on the stage! How the
simple creatures would clink their tin mugs, and drink each other's
healths, and laugh joyously in chorus! How the peasant maidens would
come tripping on the scene and lure the men tenderly to the dance! Where
are the pipe and tabour that I have seen in so many pictures; where the
simple songs that I have read about in so many poems? What do I hear as
I listen, prone on the sofa, to the evening gathering of the rustic
throng? Oaths,--nothing, on my word of honour, but oaths! I look out,
and see gangs of cadaverous savages drinking gloomily from brown mugs,
and swearing at each other every time they open their lips. Never in any
large town, at home or abroad, have I been exposed to such an incessant
fire of unprintable words, as now assail my ears in this primitive
village. No man can drink to another without swearing at him first. No
man can ask a question without adding a mark of interrogation at the end
in the shape of an oath. Whether they quarrel (which they do for the
most part), or whether they agree; whether they talk of their troubles
in this place, or their good luck in that; whether they are telling a
story, or proposing a toast, or giving an order, or finding fault with
the beer, these men seem to be positively incapable of speaking without
an allowance of at least five foul words for every one fair word that
issues from their lips. English is reduced in their mouths to a brief
vocabulary of all the vilest expressions in the language. This is an age
of civilisation; this is a Christian country; opposite me I see a
building with a spire, which is called, I believe, a church; past my
window, not an hour since, there rattled a neat pony chaise with a
gentleman inside clad in glossy black broad cloth, and popularly known
by the style and title of clergyman. And yet, under all these good
influences, here sit twenty or thirty men whose ordinary table-talk is
so outrageously beastly and blasphemous, that not a single sentence of
it, though it lasted the whole evening, could be printed as a specimen
for public inspection, in these pages. When the intelligent foreigner
comes to England, and when I tell him (as I am sure to do) that we are
the most moral people in the universe, I will take good care that he
does not set his foot in a secluded British village when the rural
population is reposing over its mug of small beer after the labours of
the day.
I am not a squeamish person, neither is my wife, but the social
intercourse of the villagers drives us out of our room, and sends us to
take refuge at the back of the house. Do we gain anything by the change?
None whatever.
The back parlour to which we have now retreated, looks out on a
bowling-green; and there are more benches, more mugs of beer, more
foul-mouthed villagers on the bowling-green. Immediately under our
window is a bench and table for two, and on it are seated a drunken old
man and a drunken old woman. The aged sot in trousers is offering
marriage to the aged sot in petticoats with frightful oaths of
endearment. Never before did I imagine that swearing could be twisted to
the purposes of courtship. Never before did I suppose that a man could
make an offer of his hand by bellowing imprecations on his eyes, or that
all the powers of the infernal regions could be appropriately summoned
to bear witness to the beating of a lover's heart under the influence of
the tender passion. I know it now, and I derive little satisfaction from
gaining the knowledge of it. The ostler is lounging about the
bowling-green, scratching his bare brawny arms and yawning grimly in the
mellow evening sunlight. I beckon to him, and ask him at what time the
tap closes? He tells me at eleven o'clock. It is hardly necessary to say
that we put off going to bed until that time, when we retire for the
night, drenched from head to foot, if I may so speak, in floods of bad
language.
I cautiously put my head out of window, and see that the lights of the
tap-room are really extinguished at the appointed time. I hear the
drinkers oozing out grossly into the pure freshness of the summer night.
They all growl together; they all go together. All?
Sinner and sufferer that I am, I have been premature in arriving at that
happy conclusion! Six choice spirits, with a social horror in their
souls of going home to bed, prop themselves against the wall of the inn,
and continue the evening's conversazione in the darkness. I hear them
cursing at each other by name. We have Tom, Dick, and Sam, Jem, Bill,
and Bob, to enliven us under our window after we are in bed. They begin
improving each other's minds, as a matter of course, by quarrelling.
Music follows, and soothes the strife, in the shape of a local duet,
sung by voices of vast compass, which soar in one note from howling bass
to cracked treble. Yawning follows the duet; long, loud, weary yawning
of all the company in chorus. This amusement over, Tom asks Dick for
"backer," and Dick denies that he has got any, and Tom tells him he
lies, and Sam strikes in and says, "No, he doan't," and Jem tells Sam he
lies, and Bill tells him that if he was Sam he would punch Jem's head,
and Bob, apparently snuffing the battle afar off, and not liking the
scent of it, shouts suddenly a pacific "good night" in the distance. The
farewell salutation seems to quiet the gathering storm. They all roar
responsive to the good night of Bob. Next, a song in chorus from Bob's
five friends. Outraged by this time beyond all endurance, I spring out
of bed and seize the water-jug. I pause before I empty the water on the
heads of the assembly beneath; I pause, and hear--O! most melodious,
most welcome of sounds!--the sudden fall of rain. The merciful sky has
anticipated me; the "clerk of the weather" has been struck by my idea of
dispersing the Nag's Head Night Club by water. By the time I have put
down the jug and got back to bed, silence--primeval silence, the first,
the foremost of all earthly influences--falls sweetly over our tavern at
last.
That night, before sinking wearily to rest, I have once more the
satisfaction of agreeing with my wife. Dear and admirable woman! she
proposes to leave this secluded village the first thing to-morrow
morning. Never did I share her opinion more cordially than I share it
now. Instead of keeping myself composed, I have been living in a region
of perpetual disturbance; and, as for doing nothing, my mind has been so
agitated and perturbed that I have not even had time to think about it.
We will go, love--as you so sensibly suggest--we will go the first thing
in the morning to any place you like, so long as it is large enough to
swallow up small sounds. Where, over all the surface of this noisy
earth, the blessing of tranquility may be found, I know not; but this I
do know: a secluded English village is the very last place towards which
any man should think of turning his steps, if the main object of his
walk through life is to discover quiet.
(_By permission of the Author._)
GEMINI AND VIRGO.
C. S. CALVERLEY.
Some vast amount of years ago,
Ere all my youth had vanish'd from me,
A boy it was my lot to know,
Whom his familiar friends called Tommy.
I love to gaze upon a child;
A young bud bursting into blossom;
Artless, as Eve yet unbeguiled,
And agile as a young opossum:
And such was he. A calm-brow'd lad,
Yet mad, at moments, as a hatter:
Why hatters as a race are mad
I never knew, nor does it matter.
He was what nurses call a "limb;"
One of those small misguided creatures
Who, tho' their intellects are dim,
Are one too many for their teachers:
And, if you asked of him to say
What twice 10 was, or 3 times 7,
He'd glance (in quite a placid way)
From heaven to earth, from earth to heaven;
And smile, and look politely round,
To catch a casual suggestion;
But make no effort to propound
Any solution of the question.
And not so much esteemed was he
Of the authorities: and therefore
He fraternized by chance with me,
Needing a somebody to care for:
And three fair summers did we twain
Live (as they say) and love together;
And bore by turns the wholesome cane
Till our young skins became as leather:
And carved our names on every desk,
And tore our clothes, and inked our collars;
And looked unique and picturesque,
But not, it may be, model scholars.
We did much as we chose to do;
We'd never heard of Mrs. Grundy;
All the theology we knew
Was that we mighn't play on Sunday;
And all the general truths, that cakes
Were to be bought at half a penny,
And that excruciating aches
Resulted if we ate too many:
And seeing ignorance is bliss,
And wisdom consequently folly,
The obvious result is this--
That our two lives were very jolly.
At last the separation came,
Real love, at that time, was the fashion;
And by a horrid chance, the same
Young thing was, to us both, a passion.
Old Poser snorted like a horse:
His feet were large, his hands were pimply,
His manner, when excited, coarse:--
But Miss P. was an angel simply.
She was a blushing, gushing thing;
All--more than all--my fancy painted;
Once--when she helped me to a wing
Of goose--I thought I should have fainted.
The people said that she was blue:
But I was green, and loved her dearly.
She was approaching thirty-two;
And I was then eleven, nearly.
I did not love as others do;
(None ever did that I've heard tell of);
My passion was a byword through
The town she was, of course, the belle of:
Oh sweet--as to the toilworn man
The far-off sound of rippling river;
As to cadets in Hindostan
The fleeting remnant of their liver--
To me was ANNA; dear as gold
That fills the miser's sunless coffers;
As to the spinster, growing old,
The thought--the dream--that she had offers.
I'd sent her little gifts of fruit;
I'd written lines to her as Venus;
I'd sworn unflinchingly to shoot
The man who dared to come between us:
And it was you, my Thomas you,
The friend in whom my soul confided,
Who dared to gaze on--to do,
I may say, much the same as I did.
One night I saw him squeeze her hand;
There was no doubt about the matter;
I said he must resign, or stand
My vengeance--and he chose the latter.
We met, we "planted" blows on blows:
We fought as long as we were able:
My rival had a bottle-nose,
And both my speaking eyes were sable.
When the school-bell cut short our strife,
Miss P. gave both of us a plaister;
And in a week became the wife
Of Horace Nibbs, the writing-master.
* * * * *
I loved her then--I'd love her still,
Only one must not love Another's:
But thou and I, my Tommy, will,
When we again meet, meet as brothers.
It may be that in age one seeks
Peace only: that the blood is brisker
In boys' veins, than in theirs whose cheeks
Are partially obscured by whisker;
Or that the growing ages steal
The memories of past wrongs from us.
But this is certain--that I feel
Most friendly unto thee, oh Thomas!
And whereso'er we meet again,
On this or that side the equator,
If I've not turned teetotaller then,
And have wherewith to pay the waiter,
To thee I'll drain the modest cup,
Ignite with thee the mild Havannah;
And we will waft, while liquoring up,
Forgiveness to the heartless ANNA.
(_By permission of_ MRS. CALVERLEY.)
KING BIBBS.
JAMES ALBERY.
"It's all through that Liberal Government."
These were the words uttered by King Bibbs as he stood in the rain
without an umbrella; and it was not the first time he had uttered them.
Think of it! There stood King Bibbs in the rain without an umbrella.
Once upon a time King Bibbs had a beautiful palace; but there came a
Liberal Government, and they promised the nation economy.
Their policy was to save and censure, to cut down everything they did
pay for, and to cut up everything they did not.
They contracted that every soldier in the army should have one nail less
in his boots, and they blamed the last Government for not having
soldiers who required no boots at all. They arranged that the royal
charwomen should clean the floors of the Government offices with soap
without sand or with sand without soap; and they censured the late
Government for having floors that wanted any cleaning. They cut down the
amount and the quality of the cheese required for the royal mousetraps,
and they pointed out to a plundered people that the last Government were
entirely to blame for there being any mice. They voted that the royal
weather-cock on the national stable should be re-gilt only once in six
years, instead of once in five, and they made it clear, at least to
their own party, that it was entirely owing to the tactics of the late
Government that weather-cocks were required at all; and it must be
admitted that upon this point the late Government were a little bit with
them.
It was a _fine time_, and the nation that King Bibbs reigned over might
well feel proud.
They did.
But you know that if you keep the stove going by what you can spare from
your household furniture, the time will come when you will be a little
at a loss for firewood.
What would you do? You cannot part with the comfortable chair you sit
in, and your friends must have their little places; so very likely, if
you had no respect for time-honoured things, you would break up some
grand old cabinet that your forefathers loved, but that to you appeared
useless, and so you'd keep the stove going. And as long as the fire
lasted, you and your friends would be warm and snug in your places.
That's just what our Government did--not ours, of course--but the one I
am talking of.
They turned their eyes on the king's palace, and they said the nation
cannot be saddled with this expense.
They had already saved the nation about a farthing per head per annum,
and this new sacrifice would save about an eighth as much more. But you
must understand that every man looked at the amount saved in the lump;
he never thought of the farthing that was put in his pocket in return
for the time he wasted in attending public meetings, but had a vague
idea that the golden thousands talked of were in some remote way his
rescued property.
What a splendid show of justice, wasn't it now, when bills were
plastered all over King Bibbs's palace, to say those desirable premises
would be sold by public auction on such a date?
It touched the people to the core; they gave up half a day to flock
round the palace, and read the bills; they lost another half-day's work
to see the palace sold; they spent a day's wages to get drunk to
celebrate this crowning stroke of economy, and in their wild delight at
the justice done them, they quite forgot to bank the one-eighth of a
farthing which the generous Government had put into their pockets.
How common it is to say, we go from bad to worse, and on that principle
I suppose it was that this Liberal Government went from good to better.
If it was good that the poor king should give up his palace and live
like a private gentleman, would it not be better that he should go a
grade lower, and live like a retired tradesman?
The odd fact was, that the more they stripped poor King Bibbs of the
sacred paraphernalia that once adorned his life, the more useless he
appeared in the eyes of his subjects; and he was cut down from a palace
to a mansion, and from a mansion to a villa; from having one hundred
horses to ten; and from ten to none. And so it was that King Bibbs came
to be walking in the rain without an umbrella; and so it was, as he
reflected on the past he exclaimed,--
"It's all through that Liberal Government."
His most gracious Majesty had been to the reading-rooms to look at the
morning papers, and see what his Government were doing. It may seem
wrong that he should thus waste a penny; but remember, it was his duty
to see how his people were getting on. As he left the rooms there was a
quiet, sad smile on the king's face.
"Ah," he muttered, "my prime minister is very clever, but he is all
ambition and vanity; he tries to sail the ship with nothing but flags. I
do wish he would take in the bunting and put out some canvas, so that we
might have a little real progress instead of so much show."
At this time he was just turning the corner of Daisy Road on his way
home, when suddenly it began to rain.
"Bless me," said his Majesty, "it's going to pour, and I've forgotten my
umbrella, I shall have my crown quite spoilt. Dear! dear! dear!"
The rain fell faster, and the poor king had yet two miles to go. His
ermine was getting quite damp.
"What am I to do?" he exclaimed. "I shall be wet through. Dear! dear! I
shall be obliged to take a cab."
The king looked along the road, and saw one coming. "Hi! hi!" shouted
his most gracious Majesty, and he waved his sceptre till it almost flew
out of his hand.
"Going home to change," said the cabman, with a careless air.
"Don't you know I'm the king?" said poor Bibbs.
"Oh, yes, you're know'd well enough," sneered the cabman; "give my love
to the old woman."
"There, there!" said the poor monarch, appealing plaintively to the
empty street; "there, that comes of having a Liberal Government; as soon
as I get a change I'll be a despot."
You see the true royal spirit in him was not quite crushed.
The rain fell faster, and King Bibbs took off his crown and was looking
at the great wet spots on the red cotton velvet when a loud voice
exclaimed:--"Does your most gracious Majesty want a cab?"
The king was about to enter the cab without a word, when a ragged boy
officiously stood by the wheel.
"What do you want?" said the boy's sovereign.
"To keep your most gracious Majesty's royal robe from touching the
wheel," said the boy.
"I can do it myself," said the king, in quite an angry tone.
Now in the ordinary way a monarch would look upon such an attention as
simply his due, but he knew this ragged young subject was looking for
patronage; he wanted a copper, and the king felt he could not afford it.
All who have studied the workings of the human heart know how we conceal
our motives even from ourselves. To look at King Bibbs you would have
thought he simply resented the boy's officiousness. He tried to persuade
himself so, but the underlying feeling was his annoyance at not having a
copper to spare. How he would have blushed if any of the Great Powers of
Europe could have seen him at that moment!
"Go to the devil," said the king to his subject. "Go away! go away!"
"Blow'd if I pay my income tax next week!" said the young traitor as he
made a very wicked face at the back of the cab.
"That's a bad boy," muttered Bibbs, as the cab drove off.
Now Bibbs, like many another proud spirit, had enjoyed the noble
pleasure of refusing, which is only felt when you have full power to
comply. When you are forced to refuse through weakness, it is very
galling to a monarch, or even to one of us.
"A d--d bad boy!" he exclaimed, and as if the truth would out in spite
of him he muttered: "It's all thro' that Liberal Government."
The house to which King Bibbs had directed the cabman to drive him, was
what is now called a villa. It was one of a row, and was certainly not
at all suggestive of a palace. Still it had a nice breakfast-parlour
underground, and a handsome little drawing-room, with folding doors,
upstairs. The rent was low, and the neighbourhood was considered, by
those who lived there, fashionable.
At first poor Bibbs was treated with some respect, but after a time he
fell into contempt, for kings, like other people, must keep their
places.
On arriving at his house the king stepped from the cab and took out his
purse. It would have done any Liberal Government good to see a
constitutional monarch like Bibbs rubbing the edges of certain light
coins to see if they were threepennies or fourpennies. But it would not
have done any one good to see the look on the cabman's face as he
received his fare. The king turned to go indoors.
"Here, hi!" shouted the cabman.
"What's the matter?" asked the king.
"What's the matter? As if your most gracious Majesty did not know! I
want another sixpence."
"You've got your fare," said the king.
"Got my fare!" retorted the cabman; "you're a pretty gracious Majesty,
you are. You go about rolling in luxury and wealth out of the hard
earnings of sich as me, and that's the way you use the money. Bah! The
sooner you're done away with altogether the better. What good are you?
Why you ain't worth the crown on your head."
The cabman drove away to swear, and the king paused to reflect. It took
the king some time to calculate, but he found he cost that cabman, at
his present rate of expenditure--he cost that cabman about an eighth of
a farthing every ten years.
The king's lips moved, though he breathed no word; but any one who had
watched the kind mouth would have seen that he was muttering something
about that Liberal Government.
He took out his latch-key and let himself in; he paused in the passage,
gently wiped his crown on the sleeve of his robe, and hung it on a
hat-peg, and, placing his sceptre in the stand beside his forgotten
umbrella--forgetfulness that had cost him a shilling--walked slowly into
the parlour.
He sat down to meditate. You have only to read your Shakespeare to know
this is the way of kings. He soliloquised somewhat in this fashion:
"It's quite clear the cheaper I get the more useless I appear. While I
was surrounded with pomp, the people ran after and applauded me; now I
get abused by a low cabman. I was like a grand ruin: while the columns
stand, and the broken entablatures lie about in picturesque profusion,
it is visited, made pictures of, and admired. But take away the old
adornments, clear away the ground, and leave only a little pile of
useless earth to mark the spot, and Admiration and Wonder, as they turn
their backs on it, will soon find Respect at their heels--I see my
fate."
The king grew reckless, and ordered an egg for his tea.
You have only to read your poets, and you will see that these sudden
desperate acts foreshadow impending doom.
At the moment that Bibbs was wiping a small spot of egg from his beard,
his ministers were holding a cabinet council to determine what should be
their next move to keep up their popularity.
There was nothing to cut down but the places of themselves and their
friends and relations. That was out of the question. The labourer is
worthy of his hire, and they had laboured hard to get into their present
position.
How would it be if they determined that the king should no longer
receive any help from the State, but earn his own living? A little hard
work would be good for the king's constitution.
The idea was a popular one. It was carried out. But poor King Bibbs was
too old to work, so it occurred to one of the ministers, who knew a City
gentleman who had an ugly daughter that he wanted to marry to a person
of rank, that by his influence the poor king might be got into an
almshouse.
After some difficulty it was done, and his most gracious Majesty found
himself in possession of two small rooms and ten shillings a week.
Any reasonable old monarch, you would think, might have been very
comfortable under these circumstances, but wherever he turned he met
unfriendly glances. People said almshouses were meant for industrious
but unfortunate tradesmen and their wives, and not for bloated old
emperors and kings. Here was a monarch not only grinding them down with
taxation, but actually taking from them the just reward of virtuous old
age.
At last it happened that a shopkeeper died insolvent, and his aged widow
was destitute. There was nothing for it but to put her on the parish,
which would be an expense, or get her into an almshouse.
The matter touched the pockets of the parishioners, and you may be
pretty sure that soon a fine clamour was raised. What had the king done
to deserve charity? Nothing. Meetings were held, bundles of letters were
sent to the newspapers, and at last the influential City gentleman, who
meant to stand for the borough at the next election, was forced to turn
out King Bibbs or lose his popularity.
The influential gentleman assured his most gracious Majesty that he
turned him out with great reluctance.
What was to be done now? It was pretty clear that the king must go on
the parish. But what parish?
It mattered not where he had lived, he had never paid his rates, and not
a parish would have him. Vestries met and discussed the matter. It was
referred to committees, minutes were brought up and referred back again;
meantime poor Bibbs, who would not go in as a casual, was left, like old
Lear, to perish.
It is true that on the first night an old Chartist, who was once
imprisoned for treason, took pity on him, and gave him a bed, but when
the king found out who his benefactor was, his old pride arose within
him, and he turned away.
His most gracious Majesty might have been seen feeling with his
thumb-nail the edge of his last coin. It was smooth; King Bibbs had but
threepence in the world.
At this moment he saw some men with advertising boards on their backs.
He looked at them; they were old and feeble. Ah! thought the king, I
think I am strong enough to carry boards. He went up to one of the men,
and asked him most respectfully where he got his employment.
The man turned round and sneered out,--
"Oh, you want to rob _us_ now, do you? You want to take the crust out of
our mouths. You ain't content with grinding _us_ poor working men down
with taxes--you ain't content with having every luxury down to
almhouses, but you must interfere with _us_. If I catch your most
gracious Majesty with _half_ a board on your back, I'll just smash you.
There!"
It will be observed that the people had lost nothing of the outward show
of respect, and always addressed the king in the proper way.
Poor Bibbs bought a penny biscuit, and with the remaining twopence a
piece of card and a bit of string. He wrote on the card,
"PRAY PITY A POOR CONSTITUTIONAL MONARCH."
And with his crown in his hand to get whatever charity would give, he
went into the bitter world to beg his way down to the grave.
* * * * *
Things went on merrily with the ministry for years. They filled all the
old places and invented new. They put the king's head on the coin, and
put the coin in their pockets.
But one fine day a certain Eastern despot with whom they had been
intriguing, thought it a politic thing to pay King Bibbs a visit IN
STATE. Here was a pretty kettle of fish! What were they to do for a
king?
It would never do to tell the Eastern despot they didn't know where
their king was, and they did not care; he would have broken with them at
once.
They sent in all directions to inquire for the king, but he was not to
be found.
They then tried an advertisement:--
IF THIS SHOULD MEET THE EYE OF KING BIBBS,
he is requested to return to his disconsolate ministers, and
all shall be forgiven.
But poor Bibbs had not seen a newspaper for years, and his ministers
were left disconsolate.
Then appeared another advertisement:--
LOST, A KING ANSWERING TO THE NAME OF BIBBS.
If any one will take him to the Treasury he will be _liberally_
rewarded.
Now it so happened that a quiet man of business, as he was passing along
a country highway, saw a poor old half crazy man eating a few dry
crusts. By his side was a bent sceptre, and on his head an old and
battered crown, while his robe of royal purple was torn and soiled, and
the ermine on it worn nearly bare and black.
As the stranger approached him, the old man took off his crown, and in a
feeble voice said, "Pray pity a poor constitutional monarch."
The stranger looked in his face and exclaimed, "Good heaven, poor soul,
what has brought you to this?"
The old man brushed a tear away from his sunken eye, and muttered--
"It was all through that Liberal Government!"
* * * * *
A week after a great city was all aglare with flags, and ablare with
trumpets. The streets were lined with people, and a procession passed,
at the head of which was a grand carriage drawn by eight horses. In the
carriage sat a feeble old man in a splendid robe, and with a new crown
that he kept taking off as he bowed to the multitude. At his side was
the splendid Eastern despot, who bowed too, for the people not only said
"Long live King Bibbs!" but they wished the splendid Eastern despot long
life as well. Near the palace gates as they returned, the king left off
bowing, and some were shocked at his pride and some at his pallor.
A few days after there was a grand and solemn procession.
And again, a few days after that, a grand and glorious procession.
* * * * *
The Government were true to their policy, and the wording of their
advertisement. The stranger who had found King Bibbs, after wasting
years in applications, received a note to say his affair was under
consideration.
(_By permission of the Author._)
MOLLY MULDOON.
ANONYMOUS.
Molly Muldoon was an Irish girl,
And as fine a one
As you'd look upon
In the cot of a peasant or hall of an earl.
Her teeth were white, though not of pearl,--
And dark was her hair, but it did not curl;
Yet few who gazed on her teeth and her hair,
But owned that a power of beauty was there.
Now many a hearty and rattling gorsoon
Whose fancy had charmed his heart into tune,
Would dare to approach fair Molly Muldoon,
But for _that_ in her eye
Which made most of them shy
And look quite ashamed, though they couldn't tell why--
Her eyes were large, dark blue, and clear,
And _heart_ and _mind_ seemed in them blended.
If _intellect_ sent you one look severe
_Love_ instantly leapt in the next to mend it--
Hers was the eye to check the rude,
And hers the eye to stir emotion,
To keep the sense and soul subdued
And calm desire into devotion.
There was Jemmy O'Hare,
As fine a boy as you'd see in a fair,
And wherever Molly was he was there.
His face was round and his build was square,
And he sported as rare
And tight a pair
Of legs, to be sure, as are found anywhere.
And Jemmy would wear
His _caubeen_ and hair
With such a peculiar and rollicking air,
That I'd venture to swear
Not a girl in Kildare
Nor Victoria's self, if she chanced to be there,
Could resist his wild way--called "Devil-may-care."
Not a boy in the parish could match him for fun,
Nor wrestle, nor leap, nor hurl, nor run
With Jemmy--No gorsoon could equal him--None,
At wake, or at wedding, at feast or at fight,
At throwing the sledge with such dext'rous sleight,--
He was the envy of men, and the women's delight.
Now Molly Muldoon liked Jemmy O'Hare,
And in troth Jemmy loved in his heart Miss Muldoon.
I believe in my conscience a purtier pair
Never danced in a tent at a pattern in June,--
To a bagpipe or fiddle
On the rough cabin door
That is placed in the middle--
Ye may talk as ye will
There's a grace in the limbs of the peasantry there
With which people of quality couldn't compare;
And Molly and Jemmy were counted the two
That would keep up the longest and go the best through
All the jigs and the reels
That have occupied heels
Since the days of the Murtaghs and Brian Boru.
It was on a long bright sunny day
They sat on a green knoll side by side,
But neither just then had much to say;
Their hearts were so full that they only tried
To do anything foolish, just to hide
What both of them felt, but what Molly denied.
They plucked the speckled daisies that grew
Close by their arms,--then tore them too;
And the bright little leaves that they broke from the stalk
They threw at each other for want of talk;
While the heart-lit look and the sunny smile
Reflected pure souls without art or guile,
And every time Molly sighed or smiled,
Jem felt himself grow as soft as a child;
And he fancied the sky never looked so bright,
The grass so green, the daisies so white;
Everything looked so gay in his sight
That gladly he'd linger to watch them till night,--
And Molly herself thought each little bird
Whose warbling notes her calm soul stirred,--
Sang only his lay but by her to be heard.
An Irish courtship's short and sweet,
It's sometimes foolish and indiscreet;
But who is wise when his young heart's heat
Whips the pulse to a galloping beat--
Ties up his judgment neck and feet
And makes him the slave of a blind conceit?
Sneer not, therefore, at the loves of the poor,
Though their manners be rude their affections are pure;
They look not by art, and they love not by rule,
For their souls are not tempered in fashion's cold school.
Oh! give me the love that endures no control
But the delicate instinct that springs from the soul,
As the mountain stream gushes its freshness and force,
Yet obedient, wherever it flows to its source.
Yes, give me that but Nature has taught,
By rank unallured and by riches unbought;
Whose very simplicity keeps it secure--
The love that illumines the heart of the poor.
All blushful was Molly, or shy at least
As one week before Lent
Jem procured her consent
To go the next Sunday and spake to the priest,
Shrove-Tuesday was named for the wedding to be,
And it dawned as bright as they'd wish to see.
And Jemmy was up at the day's first peep
For the live-long night, no wink could he sleep;
A bran-new coat, with a bright big button,
He took from a chest, and carefully put on--
And brogues as well _lampblacked_ as ever went foot on
Were greased with the fat of _a quare sort of mutton_!
Then a tidier _gorsoon_ couldn't be seen
Treading the Emerald sod so green--
Light was his step and bright was his eye
As he walked through the _slobbery_ streets of Athy.
And each girl he passed, bid "God bless him," and sighed,
While she wished in her heart that herself was the bride.
Hush! here's the Priest--let not the least
Whisper be heard till the father has ceased.
"Come, bridegroom and bride,
That the knot may be tied
Which no power upon earth can hereafter divide."
Up rose the bride, and the bridegroom too,
And a passage was made for them both to walk through!
And his Rev'rence stood with a sanctified face,
Which spread its infection around the place.
The bridesmaid bustled and whispered the bride,
Who felt so confused that she almost cried,
But at last bore up and walked forward, where
The Father was standing with solemn air;
The bridegroom was following after with pride,
_When his piercing eye something awful espied_!
He stooped and sighed,
Looked round and tried
To tell what he saw, but his tongue denied:
With a spring and a roar,
He jumped to the door,
AND THE BRIDE LAID HER EYES ON THE BRIDEGROOM NO MORE!
Some years sped on
Yet heard no one
Of Jemmy O'Hare, or where he had gone.
But since the night of that widowed feast,
The strength of poor Molly had ever decreased;
Till, at length, from earth's sorrow her soul released,
Fled up to be ranked with the saints at least.
And the morning poor Molly to live had ceased,
Just five years after the widowed feast,
An American letter was brought to the priest,
Telling of Jemmy O'Hare deceased!
Who ere his death,
With his latest breath,
To a spiritual father unburdened his breast
And the cause of his sudden departure confest,--
"Oh! Father," says he, "I've not long to live,
So I'll freely confess, and hope you'll forgive--
That same Molly Muldoon, sure I loved her indeed;
Ay, as well, as the Creed
That was never forsaken by one of my breed;
But I couldn't have married her after I saw"--
"Saw what?" cried the Father desirous to hear--
And the chair that he sat in unconsciously rocking--
"Not in her 'karacter,' yer Rev'rince, a flaw"--
The sick man here dropped a significant tear
And died as he whispered in the clergyman's ear--
"But I saw, God forgive her, A HOLE IN HER STOCKING!"
THE HARMONIOUS LOBSTERS.
ROBERT REECE.
It has always appeared to me as a remarkable fact that the practice of
Music does not promote amongst its devotees the harmony which is its own
very gist and soul. The "concord of sweet sounds" is not reflected in
the good fellowship and friendly cohesion of musicians; and the
spiritualising power of the divine art seems too often to evaporate with
the notes produced, and leave with its professors the hard _residuum_ of
an exact science and a mechanical art.
The rivalry and jealousy so noticeable amongst musical people is
peculiar to them; and, though you may with impunity neglect to demand
from the actors, poets, painters, sculptors, preachers, physicians,
surgeons, or lawyers an exhibition of their skill in their respective
arts, you will make a foe for life if you omit to ask the musician to
perform.
We all know the "musical people" at parties; how cordially we welcome
the production of that fatal waterproof roll, with its diabolical
contents of "pieces" and "ballads;" how enthusiastically we press Jones
to "give us another song," and how cheerfully and promptly (I might
almost say "hastily") Jones obliges us. It is of no use suggesting to
Miss Robinson that you "are afraid you are taxing her too far." Miss
Robinson has another ballad, or another "piece"--"Tricklings at Eve," or
"Wobblings at Noon," ready for you.
I have belonged to several musical clubs in my time, and know something
of my subject, especially the amateur section of it. I once officiated
at a professional gathering to the great hurt of a very kind man. I was
invited by a genial music publisher to join a "professional dinner"
which he gave yearly to the principal musicians, his very good friends.
The profession mustered very strongly, and did ample justice to
excellent fare; on our repairing to the drawing-room, I expected, of
course, to be entertained with some really good music, but I found that
no one would "start the ball."
In the full glare of professional eyes I opened the piano and the
proceedings myself. Before I had played forty bars every "professional"
was making for the instrument. I concluded. I had "started the ball," or
rather a musical "boomerang," which was to return viciously upon me and
my host.
Every man present held the pianoforte in turn, and at half-past two in
the morning (_I_ had commenced at ten in the evening), there were still
some unwearied musicians insisting on playing their own compositions to
unappreciative audiences of rival professors. Perhaps they are still
playing. I never did any business with that music publisher again.
Years ago I belonged to an amateur musical society which had its being
in a fashionable suburb, and was known by the felicitous title, "The
Harmonious Lobsters." To account for this name I may state that the
society owed its origin to certain jovial meetings held at a friend's
chambers, where these succulent _crustacea_ were discussed (to soft
music) at supper, twice a month. As the club grew, the suppers deceased;
and, as the society became important and pretentious, so the original
joviality evaporated.
"The Harmonious Lobsters" were as pleasant amongst themselves as the
genuine uncooked articles are in a fishmonger's basket. Every member
struggled to be "top-sawyer;" every artist, down to the little doctor
who played the triangle regarded himself as the mainstay, sole prop, and
presiding genius of the society.
We mustered a small orchestra, consisting of two flutes, two cornets,
two violins, one viola, one violoncello, a drum, a clarionet, and the
triangle above mentioned.
The performances of this "limited band" were more remarkable for their
force than their precision; and a want of "tone" and completeness was
the result of an endeavour on the part of each performer to make the
instrument he played specially conspicuous. It didn't matter so much
with the flutes, violins, and clarionet; but the two cornets were a
serious nuisance.
Gasper and Puffin (both "first" cornets, of course!) were deadly rivals,
implacable foes. Each aspired to be the ruler of the club, each regarded
himself as _the_ performer _par excellence_. The flutes were not
friendly, and the violoncello was crabbed and unpleasant, but those
cornets were insufferable.
We all felt that a crisis was at hand, and we all devoutly wished it;
for while Puffin and Gasper asserted themselves, we others were, to a
defined extent, hiding our light under a bushel.
The catastrophe was foreshadowed by a stormy meeting convened to arrange
the programme of our fourth and last annual concert.
"Of course," premised the First Violin, who was also Secretary and
Librarian, "we have all a solo!"
There was no doubt of _that_, except as regarded the "doubles," viz.,
the two flutes and the two cornets. The first couple had so far
coalesced as to submit to the prowess being displayed in a duet, which
was destined to be less flute than elaborate flatulence.
"Let's begin at the beginning," said Gasper. "No. 1: that's an overture
for _tutti_; say, 'The Caliph of Bagdad.'"
"_I_ don't mind," responded the Secretary. "It's easy enough, and
there's lots of show for the violins."
"The question now arises," jerked in Puffin, "who is to be the _first_
soloist? _I_ won't."
"Nor likely to be," sneered Gasper.
"I understand your narrow-mindedness, Gasper," retorted Puffin; "but I
shall choose my own place and my own solo."
"So shall _I_," announced Gasper; "go on."
The Secretary proceeded.
"Shall we say: SOLO (_Clarionet_)--Mr. R. Lipsey."
"Anything for a quiet life," said Lipsey. "_I_'m not afraid."
So it went on for four more items, when it became obvious that the "best
place," in the first part of the programme was open to competition.
"_My_ solo," said Gasper, "comes in here."
"Thank you," replied Puffin; "I claim it myself."
"_Do_ you?" grinned Gasper; "I stick to this point."
"So do _I_," said the undaunted Puffin.
"No, but really, you know," argued the Secretary, "it must be settled:
let _me_ cut the knot. _I_'ll play _my_ solo here."
A howl of opposition now arose. Every performer, exclusive of the Drum
and the Triangle, had decided to "go in" for the "show place" in the
programme.
"I leave the Society if I do not play my solo here," said Gasper. "I
have no more to say!" and he sat down.
"So do _I_," echoed Puffin, "and get on with 'The Caliph' if you can
without a second cornet."
This was clinching matters with a vengeance.
"Look here," interposed the Doctor. "_I_ don't play a solo, so I speak
impartially, I hope. Let Gasper play his solo in _this_ part, and Puffin
_his_ solo in the best place of the _second_ part of the programme.
That'll settle it."
There was a tumult immediately; everybody seemed to be multiplied by
ten.
"Don't be a fool," whispered the Doctor to Gasper. "Stick to your right
place in the first part; all the swells look for _that_. They'll be gone
before Puffin gets _his_ turn."
Gasper was quiet in a moment.
The Doctor, winking at me, got hold of the stony but still excited
Puffin.
"Let him have his blessed solo _early_, my boy," said the Triangle. "The
big people won't have taken their seats by then. You'll have it all your
own way."
To this day I believe the Doctor had a professional impulse in this
advice.
During a lull Puffin spoke.
"_Let_ Mr. Gasper have his solo in the first part. I flatter myself I
can face the inferior position without any fear."
"You are _so_ modest," retorted the delighted Gasper. "Put it down,
Basscleff. SOLO (_Cornet_) 'The Wind from the Sea,' _Vulvini_--George
Gasper, Esq."
"That's _my_ solo," shouted Puffin; "and I'll play it!"
* * * * *
Spare me the recital of the ensuing scene.
"Listen to _me_," said the Triangle, maliciously. "We must come to hard
facts, I plainly see. The truth is, the difference between Mr. Gasper
and Mr. Puffin (both admirable performers) has assumed the aspect of
direct rivalry; I may go so far as to say, antagonism. Laudable, so far
as art is concerned; lamentable for the ill-feeling promoted. I suggest
that, for the setting at rest of the unfortunate dispute, and the better
spirit of the Society, it be arranged that the two gentlemen _do_ play
the same solo at the same concert."
Loud shouts, of varied sentiment, followed this daring speech.
"A moment, please," cried the Doctor; "as Treasurer of this Musical
Society I may state that our financial condition is not so satisfactory
as it might be: if this competition gets wind--I mean, of course, if
people get to know of it, we shall have an enormous house."
After some disputing, it was agreed that there was cogency in the
Doctor's suggestion.
Other members were appeased with situations in the programme more or
less prominent, but when the twenty-four items had been satisfactorily
arranged, and the club separated, the general feeling was that the
interest of the concert, and the stake at issue, were the competitive
performances of Messrs. Puffin and Gasper.
The evening of the concert arrived: so did Doctor Martel at my rooms:
the little man was suffused with delight.
"My dear fellow!" he chuckled, "it'll be the funniest thing you ever
saw. I've been running to and fro all the week. Now to Gasper, now to
Puffin. 'You should hear Puffin phrase that passage about the 'wind
moaning,' said I to Gasper, 'it's tiptop,' and Gasper grinds his teeth.
Then I go to Puffin and say, 'Gasper's devoting himself to making a hit,
old man; the way he imitates the surge of the wave in the passage 'The
wild wave answers the winds,' will 'fetch' them, and no mistake!' and
Puffin turns pale."
"What does it all portend?" asked I.
"Wait and see, my lad," said the sly Doctor. "Wait and see."
* * * * *
Eight o'clock! and I meet Puffin as I enter the "Artists' Room." I play
the _violino secondo_. I am nobody.
"Well," say I, "how do you feel?"
"Never mind," says the astute Puffin; "I bide my time! _Only_ (mark my
words), Gasper won't score as heavily as he expects." With these dark
words he vanishes.
The next moment I am face to face with Gasper.
"How do you feel?" I ask of _him_.
"Don't worry about _me_," replies Gasper. "I'm not afraid that Puffin
will cover himself with glory, after all." And Gasper retires.
We had a wonderful "house" that night. The "competition" _had_ been
noised abroad, and the wily doctor's surmises were fulfilled. There was
a Puffin and a Gasper faction ready to do battle for its respective
champion when the clarion of defiance rang out from the platform.
I pass the overture, a solo on the clarionet, which reduced the pug-nose
of Lipsey to a severe aquiline during its performance; a flute and
violin _duo_, and etc. The time had come for "The Wind from the Sea"
(_George Gasper Esq._). The favourite performer was hailed with shouts
of delight. The Puffin faction smiled silently.
The opening bars of the symphony were played by the pianist.
Gasper advanced with a half-restrained smile of self-satisfaction, and
after some singular contortions of his lips began to play the _scena_
for the cornet.
But no sound followed his laboured effort! Again, and again, red in the
face, and furious, he essayed to produce a note from his silver
instrument. It was dumb!
Not so the Puffin section of the audience; the titter soon became a
laugh, the laugh a shout, and finally with a stamp, and a diabolical
expression, Mr Gasper gave up the game, and retreated amidst a howl of
displeasure.
Meanwhile where was Puffin? Never mind.
Slowly went on the programme, till the item for which Mr. Puffin was
"set down" arrived in its place.
More sensation in the audience. Puffin section cock-a-hoop. Similar
symphony on the part of the pianist, and the placid Puffin, a foregone
victory shaping his lips into a half-concealed smile, put his cornet to
his mouth, and----
Well! while the audience was fighting its way out, half hysterical with
laughter (for the performance of Mr. Puffin had only reproduced Mr.
Gasper's failure), I was the unwilling witness of a "set-to" between the
rival cornet-players, who, having discovered that each had,
respectively, placed a cork up the principal tube of his opponent's
instrument, so far agreed, as to differ as to the justice of the
process. From the appearance of their upper lips, I am sure no solos
were to be apprehended for weeks to come. But, before our next club
meeting, Messrs. Gasper and Puffin had retired.
I don't belong to any musical clubs now.
(_By permission of the Author._)
THE PROVINCIAL LANDLADY.
H. CHANCE NEWTON.
Oh, dear Mister Editor, sir, if you please, they say you're a kind and
humanious gent, sir,
Which listens attentive to troubles and woes sech as worry an
'ard-working woman like me;
I'm worrited dreadful from morning to night with working and toilin'
and sech,--which the rent, sir,
Is not always quite so forthcoming as I, with my fam'ly, would wish
it to be!
Which I keeps a big house in the square, sir, not five minits' walk
from the R'yal Theaytre,
Jest oppersit Muggins's Music-hall, sir, which its "public" is known
as the "Linnet and Lamb"--
But I am a lamb, sir, to stand it as I do, a-working away up till
midnight, or later,
For a lot of purfessional folks, which the best of the bunch, sir, is
nothing but sham!
From them music-hall people as lodges with me is a set which I'm sure,
sir, is simply outragious,
A-rushin' all over the house when I've scrubbed it and cleaned it jest
like a new pin;--
And as for them second-floor folks (which is niggers) believe me their
conduct is something rampagious,
A-larkin' all over the landing, a-spoilin' the paper,--it's really a sin!
And the party wot sings comic songs, sir, goes in and out shouting
whenever he pleases,
And the next floor (the serio-comic)--well, there, she's a stuck-up,
impertinent miss,
Which the last ones as had them apartments wos folks as performed on
the "flyin' trapeeses,"
And went away two pun' thirteen in my debt, and I've never beheld 'em
from that day to this.
Than there's that ventrillikist party, as imitates different voices,
and that, sir,--
He frightens me out of my wits, which I'm sure as I haven't too many
to spare;
And as for that Muggins's chairman, I frequently finds him asleep on
the mat, sir,
Which I characterises behaviour like that as werry disgraceful and
shocking--so there!
Then the Sisters Mac-Jones (them duettists) comes bouncin' all over
the place, quite disdainful,
A fault-findin' day after day, sir, dressed up in their fal-de-rals,
looking like guys;
And the party that sings sentimental goes on in a way as to me, sir,
is painful,
He smokes a long pipe in the garding, which dreadful proceedings I
can't but despise.
Then a troop which I think is called ackribacks, knocks my best parlour
to rack and to ruin,
A-chucking of summersets over my splendid meeogany tables and chairs;
Why to-day they all stood on their heads in the passage: "Good gracious,"
I shouted, "why what are you doin'?"
When they twisted their legs round their necks, sir, made faces, and told
me to toddle downstairs!
Which I don't wish to make a remark, sir, that might be unpleasant, but
while I was at it
I thought as I'd mention the matters that cause me continual worry and
din,
For if you excuse the expression, I ses, as for lettin' of lodgins',--oh,
drat it!
"_If it wasn't for makin' it out of their board_," sir,--by jingers, I'd
never let lodgins' agin!
(_From_ "THE PENNY SHOWMAN," _by permission of the Author and_
MR. SAMUEL FRENCH.)
MY MATRIMONIAL PREDICAMENT.
LEOPOLD WAGNER.
I dare say a great many men in my situation would think themselves
highly honoured; but, however this may strike others, I fell bound to
confess that I am far from happy. The truth is, I have become so
entangled in the meshes of a really romantic love affair, that I can see
no possible hope of freeing myself. Let me hasten to explain.
About twelve months ago I engaged myself to a pretty young girl, who,
out of sheer fickleness--it could have been nothing else--jilted me. I
was much cut up at the time, since I had learnt to grow very fond of
her. A little while after, I began to take an interest in another pretty
girl whom I came in contact with almost daily; but, as I had no means of
getting properly introduced to her, I never spoke. By-and-by she
disappeared, and I soon forgot her. Things went on with me in the usual
way until, suddenly growing tired of my lonely existence, I advertised
for "a nice young girl, thoroughly domesticated, able and willing to
make a good-looking young bachelor happy;" adding, "Previous experience
not necessary." In this way I actually found one who answered my
expectations to the letter. We met, took the usual walks; and in the
course of a week or two, I could see she loved me with her whole heart.
The arrangments for our wedding were soon made. I procured the ring and
keeper; then put up the banns. Now the house I live in is peculiarly
situated. When I lie in bed, my head is in Blankshire, while my feet
extend over the boundary-line into Chumpshire. This may appear a slight
matter enough; and yet, I fancy, that if hard times should ever overtake
me, I would have two different parishes to fall back upon. However, I
found it necessary to publish the banns in both parishes; added to which
my _fiancee_, who is, or rather was, a lady's maid, a mile or two away
in another direction, must needs put them up in her own parish also. So
that I ought to reckon myself very much married, when it's all over. But
here comes my predicament.
I forgot to mention that the girl who jilted me is godmother to my
landlady's new baby. This slight relationship enables my landlady to
take the liberty of corresponding with her; and the other day, as it
transpires, she let slip the news of my approaching marriage. About the
same time, I not only met, but had the pleasure of being introduced to,
the second pretty girl at a concert. She, too, had heard of my marriage;
and presently confessed that she loved me herself; that, in fact, she
would never have left the neighbourhood if I had only once spoken to
her. This put me about considerably; and I heartily wished my wedding
was not so far advanced. Arrived home, I found a letter from the first
girl imploring me to pause before it was too late, and begging my
forgiveness for her past conduct. I took no notice of it; but the next
day brought her over, to stay, invited by my landlady. It was impossible
for me to offer any objection, as I was only a lodger myself. Still, the
girl's manner was convincing. She threw herself into my arms, and begged
I would postpone the ceremony, until she could really prove her devotion
to me. This was rather awkward; for, almost on the instant, all my old
love came back to me again, and I could not let her go.
The following day I took her about a bit, when I fell in love with her
more than ever. In the afternoon I even went so far as to write to her
mother, asking her to drop over to tea on Sunday afternoon. That night
I also introduced her to the second pretty girl--whom I must now speak
of as Miss No. 3. To my great surprise, the two became fast friends. On
the Sunday morning, when the little godmother heard my banns called out
in church, she fainted right away, and had to be carried outside. For
myself, I felt like listening to my own death-warrant. At tea-time the
mother came over; so she and my landlady soon settled it between
themselves, that the little godmother had the greatest right to me. In
the middle of all this, my _fiancee_ turned up, when a lively scene
ensued. Eventually I left the house with her, to explain matters. But
nothing would satisfy her short of my marrying her, as she had the right
to demand. She swore that if I did not go through with the ceremony, she
would make away with herself. No; she had no intention of bringing up a
breach of promise case, for she loved me too much. Poor girl; I pitied
her from the bottom of my heart, and went straight back to my place to
give the little godmother her _conge_. But when we reached the house, I
found the latter stretched upon the floor in a dead faint; and my
courage completely gave way. I could not make up my mind which of the
two girls I liked the best, so begged for a little time to decide. My
_fiancee_ went into the back parlour to cry, while I, in a frenzy of
distraction, rushed first to one girl, then to the other; and at last
into the open air, full butt against the third girl, who, brokenhearted,
was coming to see me. I thought the best thing I could do would be to go
for a walk and try to console her. I did; but this little walk turned
out so delightful, that I forgot all about the other two girls, and fell
madly in love with _her_! On our way back to my place, we met my
_fiancee_ just leaving. I introduced and saw them both home. When I
reached home myself, Miss. No. 1 had been put to bed; her mother had
gone, while I was left to reflect upon my singular position. In the
morning at breakfast, the girl came to me crying; hanging round my neck,
and telling me how much she loved me. "Don't marry her, marry me!" she
pleaded, as I left the house on business. During the day I redeemed a
promise exacted from me by No. 3 to visit her, when she told me the same
tale. I also received a letter from my _fiancee_, demanding whether or
not I intended to go through the ceremony; failing which she would end
her life by poison. This was very dreadful; I went to see her, and
begged time for consideration.
The fact is, I could not--nor can I yet--make up my mind which I like
best. I love them all, and am convinced they each love me. Position has
nothing whatever to do with it, for I am only a poor man. Had I money, I
might perhaps square the difficulty with the mothers; but the girls
themselves are above mercenary ideas. I am sure, nay, _positive_ that
they love me for myself alone. They are not even unfriendly disposed
towards each other, which is the most awkward part of the business. If
they would only consent to be locked up in a room together and fight it
out amongst themselves, I might be able to marry whichever one was left
alive. But no such thing. Each swears she will not stand in the others'
way, yet vows suicide if I do not individually marry _her_. The other
morning, because I would not give her a decided "Yes," No. 1 ran out of
the house to drown herself, and I arrived on the scene just in the nick
of time to pull her back at the water's edge, by the bustle. A day or so
afterwards, No. 3 put the same question to me, and noticing my
hesitation, had well-nigh leapt upon the railway metals before I could
prevent her. I didn't see my _fiancee_ that night: but at six o'clock
the next morning, my landlady knocked me up to say that according to a
message left with her late at night Miss No. 2 had poisoned herself. For
an hour or so I was completely stunned; but after that time I dressed
and ran to the house, to find that the whole affair was a hoax. I intend
to be even with the fellow who played it on me, yet.
This kind of thing has been going on for more than a week, and I feel
worried to death. The latest is that, in addition to No. 1, both the
other girls have taken up their residence with my landlady. I would fly
if I could, but my business compels me to remain on the spot. The three
girls follow me about everywhere. I never have a minute's peace. Though
the greatest of friends, they are at the same time jealous of trusting
each other alone with me, lest I should commit myself to any rash
promise. I suppose I am one of those susceptible fellows who falls in
love with any girl who may encourage him. It must be so. Yet these girls
are every bit as nice as they are loving and _different_. No. 1 is very
young and pretty; my _fiancee_ has a splendid figure, and is thoroughly
domesticated; No. 3 is my counterpart in everything. I love them all,
and can't for the life of me tell which I like the best. Whatever I do,
it will be a case of suicide for two of them, or a couple of breach of
promise actions for me. I ought to have stated before that the mothers
have taken lodgings in the house as well, so that I am in for a nice
thing! I would marry all three if the law allowed me; but though the
girls themselves might not object, yet the prospect of _three_
mothers-in-law is too much for one man to contemplate. The most sensible
arrangement would be, I think, not to marry anybody, but to go on loving
all three in a perfectly platonic manner until something happened to
make two of them throw the game up. I dare say the girls would be
willing enough--one of them even suggested it herself yesterday; but the
mothers won't hear of such a thing, their purpose being to bring me to
the point at once. I am a great favourite with the mothers too; and
their solicitations that I should marry their respective daughters are
almost as pressing as are those of the girls themselves. Really I am in
a most uncomfortable position. Out of doors, as I walk along followed by
these three young creatures, I am regarded as a noted character, and
the people everywhere whisper, "There goes the young man with his three
wives!" I shouldn't mind this in the least if only the mothers would
pack up their traps and go about their business. But they won't; here
they stick at my very elbow, calmly waiting for me to say whose daughter
I really mean to marry. So long as I refuse to give an answer to all
three, I am safe; but the business is getting just a little bit
tiresome, and I should heartily like to see my way out of it.
Was there ever anybody in such a predicament before! What shall I do?
What can I do? Is there any charitably-disposed person here who can
advise me? No? Then I am a doomed man, and must meet my fate resignedly.
However, I vow and declare that if by any chance I _should_ get over
this, I'll not repeat the experiment as long as I live.
(_Copyright of the Author._)
ETIQUETTE.
W. S. GILBERT.
The _Ballyshannon_ foundered off the coast of Cariboo,
And down in fathoms many went the captain and the crew;
Down went the owners--greedy men whom hope of gain allured:
Oh, dry the starting tear, for they were heavily insured.
Besides the captain and the mate, the owners and the crew,
The passengers were also drowned excepting only two:
Young PETER GRAY, who tasted teas for BARBER, CROOP, AND CO.,
And SOMERS, who from Eastern shores imported indigo.
These passengers, by reason of their clinging to a mast,
Upon a desert island were eventually cast.
They hunted for their meals, as ALEXANDER SELKIRK used,
But they couldn't chat together--they had not been introduced.
For PETER GRAY, and SOMERS too, though certainly in trade,
Were properly particular about the friends they made;
And somehow thus they settled it without a word of mouth--
That GRAY should take the northern half, while SOMERS took the south.
On PETER'S portion oysters grew--a delicacy rare,
But oysters were a delicacy PETER couldn't bear.
On SOMERS' side was turtle, on the shingle lying thick,
Which SOMERS couldn't eat, because it always made him sick.
GRAY gnashed his teeth with envy as he saw a mighty store
Of turtle unmolested on his fellow-creature's shore.
The oysters at his feet aside impatiently he shoved,
For turtle and his mother were the only things he loved.
And SOMERS sighed in sorrow as he settled in the south,
For the thought of PETER'S oysters brought the water to his mouth.
He longed to lay him down upon the shelly bed, and stuff;
He had often eaten oysters, but had never had enough.
How they wished an introduction to each other they had had
When on board the _Ballyshannon_! And it drove them nearly mad,
To think how very friendly with each other they might get,
If it wasn't for the arbitrary rule of etiquette!
One day when out hunting for the _mus ridiculus_,
GRAY overheard his fellow-man soliloquising thus:
"I wonder how the playmates of my youth are getting on,
MCCONNELL, S. B. WALTERS, PADDY BYLES, and ROBINSON?"
These simple words made PETER as delighted as could be,
Old chummies at the Charterhouse were ROBINSON and he!
He walked straight up to SOMERS, then he turned extremely red,
Hesitated, hummed and hawed a bit, then cleared his throat, and said:
"I beg your pardon--pray forgive me if I seem too bold,
But you have breathed a name I knew familiarly of old.
You spoke aloud of ROBINSON--I happened to be by.
You know him?" "Yes, extremely well." "Allow me, so do I."
It was enough: they felt they could more pleasantly get on,
For (ah, the magic of the fact!) they each knew ROBINSON!
And MR. SOMERS' turtle was at PETER'S service quite,
And MR. SOMERS punished PETER'S oyster-beds all night.
They soon became like brothers from community of wrongs:
They wrote each other little odes and sang each other songs;
They told each other anecdotes disparaging their wives;
On several occasions, too, they saved each other's lives.
They felt quite melancholy when they parted for the night,
And got up in the morning soon as ever it was light;
Each other's pleasant company they reckoned so upon,
And all because it happened that they both knew ROBINSON!
They lived for many years on that inhospitable shore,
And day by day they learned to love each other more and more.
At last, to their astonishment, on getting up one day,
They saw a frigate anchored in the offing of the bay.
To PETER an idea occurred, "Suppose we cross the main?
So good an opportunity may not be found again."
And SOMERS thought a minute, then ejaculated, "Done!
I wonder how my business in the City's getting on?"
"But stay," said MR. PETER: "when in England, as you know,
I earned a living tasting teas for BARBER, CROOP, AND CO.,
I may be superseded--my employers think me dead!"
"Then come with me," said SOMERS, "and taste indigo instead."
But all their plans were scattered in a moment when they found,
The vessel was a convict ship from Portland outward bound;
When a boat came off to fetch them, though they felt it very kind,
To go on board they firmly but respectfully declined.
As both the happy settlers roared with laughter at the joke,
They recognised a gentlemanly fellow pulling stroke:
'Twas ROBINSON--a convict, in an unbecoming frock!
Condemned to seven years for misappropriating stock!!!
They laughed no more, for SOMERS thought he had been rather rash
In knowing one whose friend had misappropriated cash;
And PETER thought a foolish tack he must have gone upon
In making the acquaintance of a friend of ROBINSON.
At first they didn't quarrel very openly, I've heard;
They nodded when they met, and now and then exchanged a word:
The word grew rare, and rarer still the nodding of the head,
And when they meet each other now, they cut each other dead.
To allocate the island they agreed by word of mouth,
And PETER takes the north again, and SOMERS takes the south;
And PETER has the oysters, which he hates in layers thick,
And SOMERS has the turtle--turtle always makes him sick.
(_By permission of the Author._)
A LOST SHEPHERD.
FRANK BARRETT.
Winklehaven was once a very bad place. Roads, trade,
drainage--everything was as bad as it could be. The fishermen were bad,
and beat their wives, and their wives were bad and deserved all the
beating they got, and more. The fish caught there was bad before it went
to market. The very parson was bad, and preached the excisemen to sleep
whilst Red Robert and Black Bill ran their cargo of smuggled bad brandy.
Families who should have been respectable were not. Parents whipped
their children into rebellion and then cut them off with shillings--bad
ones, of course. Wards defied their guardians, and invariably fell in
love contrary to the arrangements of their seniors. All the young men
ran away with all the eligible young women.
The natural result was that after a dozen years from the time when
Winklehaven stood at its worst, the population of the town consisted of
infirm old people suffering from remorse, gout, and other afflictions
proceeding from the excesses of youth, and such spinsters as were
rejected by the young rakes of the preceding era. The moral aspect of
the place changed in those years; it was no longer unholy, but, indeed,
the most virtuous of human settlements.
The fishermen were too old and weak to beat their wives, and their
failing memories could supply them with no oaths suitable to express
their feelings. The wicked parson and the smugglers were no more; there
wasn't a young man in the place, and the ladies who called themselves
young were irreproachable.
It might strike the unthinking as an extraordinary peculiarity that a
place so very, very good should require a curate in addition to a deaf
rector. Nevertheless such was the case--a curate was wanted, and wanted
very much by the congregation of St. Tickleimpit's--the unblemished
spinsters, who called themselves young. They would have a curate, and
Mr. Lillywhite Lambe, B.A., they had.
Now as the snow falls like a veil of purity over the face of the earth,
only to melt and besmirch it before the lasting season of blossoming
sweetness, so Mr. Lillywhite Lambe, B.A., came to Winklehaven and passed
away before it attained to its present buttercup-and-daisy condition of
virtue; and the manner of his going this pen shall tell.
Mr. Lillywhite Lambe, B.A., was a curate of the deepest dye. He had not
so much principle as a bankrupt, and he came to Winklehaven with the
settled purpose of marrying the richest and least objectionable of his
congregation. The difficulties in his way were few. In personal
appearance and demeanour he was so simple and sweet that even the rector
was mistaken and thought him a fool, and what more could a girl of
five-and-forty desire?
It was not a question which he _could_ marry from amongst the eighteen
or twenty tempting creatures around him, but rather which he should
reject. They surrounded him like a glory wherever he went, waiting for
him at his coming out and never leaving him until his going in. Seldom
less than half-a-dozen spinsters accompanied him; they liked him too
much and each other too little to trust him with one alone. And they
wrote letters to him marked "private," containing the burning thoughts
they dared not express in the presence of their sisters. Each was
tantamount to an offer of marriage; but he was yet undecided in his
selection, and replied to all with touching yet ambiguous texts. At this
time he suffered somewhat from bile, for his most active exercise was
wool-winding, and the ladies buttered his toast on both sides and the
edges.
But anon there came a man with a black beard and a devil-may-care aspect
to Winklehaven, and took for six months the cottage on the deserted West
Cliff, which had belonged to Black Bill in the bad old times.
The stranger snubbed the inquisitive tradesman of whom he bought his
groceries; he ordered his bacon by the side, his beer by the barrel, and
his whisky by the largest of stone bottles. He laughed aloud when he
passed in the High Street Mr. Lambe with the three Misses Cockle on one
side of him, and the three Misses Crabbe on the other. The ladies had
not any doubt that he was a bold bad man, and declared one and all that
nothing would tempt them to venture upon that dreadful West Cliff.
But, sinners being so few, they could not but feel interested in this
man with the black beard and dark eyes, and when he came not to church
on Sunday they implored the rector to visit him.
The rector said he would not go (and privately swore it, in episcopal
terms, for he hated walking and sinners equally), but he offered the
services of his curate; and the congregation, though it fain would have
spared its pet curate so dangerous a mission, could not refuse to
accept.
Mr. Lillywhite Lambe, B.A., found it difficult to conceal his delight at
the prospect before him, for an excess of ladies and butter was killing
him. He had not enjoyed half an hour's freedom in the open air since his
arrival at Winklehaven; it seemed to him years since he smoked a morning
pipe. His bowels yearned towards beer from the barrel and whiskey from
stone jars.
That last evening he was ever to spend in his lodgings at Winklehaven he
occupied in preparations for the morrow. He looked up the pipe he had
brought with him but never smoked, and tobacco--dry and dusty, yet
fragrant as hay new mown, and pipe-lights, and a French novel; these he
stuffed into the pockets of his alpaca coat, ingeniously overlaying them
with his pamphlet confuting the doctrines of the Primitive Bedlamites.
In the morning he rose gaily; and when he had parted with his anxious
flock at the foot of the west hill, he ascended the steep path, like a
cherub climbing a cloud, without sense of exertion, and as one who is
resolved to make a day of it.
A walk of two miles was before him, but he did not hurry himself after
he had lost sight of the spinsters and the church weathercock. He
stopped, took off his collar and band, bared his shirt front to the
breeze, and took a deep inspiration. Then he threw himself on the thymy
grass and tasted liberty. He smoked three pipes; he read two chapters
and a half of the novel, skipping the moral parts; he dropped the book,
turned over on his chest, and with his clerical hat tilted sideways over
his eyes, he watched the distant ships for half an hour; after that he
lay on his back, drew a handkerchief over his eyes and went to sleep. He
slumbered for two blessed hours, and then waking athirst, thought kindly
of the sinner who kept his beer in barrels and whisky in cool stoneware.
So he pulled himself into Evangelical shape again and stepped out
briskly for the smuggler's cottage, smacking his lips. But, alas, the
cottage door was barred, and there was no trace of the black-bearded
sinner, save a flitch of bacon and the beer barrel which stood in the
most inaccessible of pantries.
He must wait. Once more he sat upon the short grass, and to beguile the
time, drew out the budget of letters sent by his admiring congregation.
He read them through, one after another, with the view of forming a
comparative estimate of the writer's value, but the difficulty of
selecting one seemed greater than ever.
The temporal and spiritual worth of each was represented by
_x_. With the chance of facilitating his choice he had recourse
to his pencil, with which he was tolerably skilful, and on the
back of each letter he drew a portrait of its sender. These
spinsters were beyond flattery, so he caricatured them to find
which must certainly be rejected as the worst looking.
In this amusing occupation the time would have passed unheeded but for
Mr. Lambe's increasing dryness. There was no water to be had, no, nor
wine, and the interior of the young curate's mouth felt like brown paper
to his tongue. It suddenly came to his mind that a dip in the cool sea
would refresh his body, now suffering from external in addition to
internal dryness. For the hour was two, the month July, and the sun
unclouded, and he determined at once to bathe, wondering why he had not
availed himself of this blessing of freedom. Except in a footbath he had
not bathed during the term of his curacy at Winklehaven. How could he,
where there was neither seclusion nor bathing machine?
The tide was at ebb, and a long stretch of sand lay between the cliff
and the sea; but near the water's edge stood a rock, and thither Mr.
Lambe betook himself. On the cliff side was a little shelf dried by the
sun, and on this he laid his clothes neatly; then with a smile
irradiating his countenance, he slapped his thin legs and ran down into
the bursting waves. Quickly he lost all thought of thirst--of
everything, save the enjoyment of the moment. He swam in every
conceivable position, bent in girlish fashion to meet the coming waves,
and floundered about like a porpoise.
It was whilst turning over head and heels that he caught sight of that
which, in a moment, sobered him--a petticoat upon the cliff--another,
another! yet others, each with a wearer! They were not a thousand yards
from the cottage on the cliff--those ladies whose outlines he
recognised, even at their remote distance from him. Full well he knew
they had come to look for him. What was he to do? How could he face
them, how avoid? He had thought to dry himself like a raisin in the sun;
that now was impossible. Equally impracticable was it to clothe himself
wet; before he had a sock on he would be observed, for there was no
ledge upon the sea-ward side of the rock, and the flowing waves already
touched its base.
The only place of concealment was behind the rock, and there he must
stay until the ladies retired.
He lay in the water, and through a chink in the rock watched his
pursuers; their voices, in high-pitched consultation, reached his ear.
They examined the cottage on the cliff, and then descended to the rocks
at its base. It was only natural that the ladies should think their
beloved curate murdered. They had not seen him for six hours; and his
destruction at the hands of the black-bearded man was the worst
explanation of his protracted absence that entered their imagination.
This fear had led them to follow in his footsteps; and now, as they
poked their sun-shades in the fissures of the rocks, it was with the
expectation of finding his corpse.
Mr. Lambe was fervently thankful that the rising tide kept them from his
place of concealment, and watched their movements fixedly, until the
cramp seized his leg; and then, in the limited space of his seclusion,
he exercised his ingenuity to keep the vital heat within him.
Occasionally he glanced at the shore. When the ladies were fatigued,
they systematically divided their number--one going to search, whilst
the other rested. Hour after hour passed, and every minute brought fresh
cramps and racking pains to the limbs of the sodden curate. He had to
put his lips between his teeth, lest their violent chattering should
proclaim his whereabouts; and he cried like a child when he found his
body assuming the blue tints of an unboiled lobster.
But still those doting spinsters poked amongst the sea-weed with
unceasing zeal.
The sun was wearing the horizon, when he heard a scream, and beheld the
second Miss Cockle pointing in the direction of his rock.
Mr. Lambe was perplexed: it was impossible that his eye, peeping through
the small chink, had been discovered; but a moment later his perplexity
gave place to horror, as he perceived his hat bobbing gaily on the waves
between him and the shore. It was followed by his stockings, and behind
them in procession his waistcoat, coat--everything! all washed away from
the nice little ledge by the rising tide. He had never given his clothes
a thought from the moment he neatly packed them. But had that
consideration entered his mind, it could only have added to his anxiety:
for it would have been impossible to get them from the place where they
lay on the coast-side of the rock without displaying himself. Heedless
of their boots, the ladies hooked at the oncoming vestments with their
sunshades; and, now, one has his collar, another his dear hat, and a
third his blessed braces, whilst their cries of woe echo along the
coast.
When his coat was fished out, what could be expected, but that the
ladies all should dash at his pockets with a view to gratifying their
curiosity, and rescuing the letters which betrayed their most private
feelings.
With groans, Mr. Lambe beheld his pipe and tobacco brought forth, amidst
cries of astonishment, then the French novel; and, finally, the bundle
of letters. He could not bear to see the result, when each, seizing the
letter in her own handwriting, should find her caricature thereon; and
dropping his head, he beat it with his fist--partly in frenzy, partly to
promote the circulation of his stagnating blood.
* * * * *
The black-bearded man returned to the cottage as the ladies, carrying
the only remains they could find of their curate, were leaving his
vicinity. He was not displeased that he was later than usual in
returning; for although he loved the beautiful, he did not like the
ladies of Winklehaven.
He lived by painting pictures, this pariah of the West Cliff;
nevertheless, he had some good qualities, and when half an hour later a
nude study, shivering and wet, presented itself in his doorway craving
to be taken in out of the night wind, he asked no question until he had
wrapped him in warm blankets, and filled him with strong liquors.
Mr. Lillywhite Lambe never returned to his curacy, never married a rich
spinster. His disappearance was not inquired into deeply. Some people
preferred to think of him as dead and sainted. He was supposed to be
drowned, and his ghost was said to be visible at times upon the West
Cliff--generally with a pipe in his mouth. And as his costume was that
of the black man, who was habitually at his side, it was further
supposed that he had, in that first visit to the cottage on the cliff,
sold himself to the D----.
(_By permission of the Author._)
A MATHEMATIC MADNESS.
F. P. DEMPSTER.
For months I had been "grinding" Mathematics day and night
When Miss McGirton cast on my affections such a blight;
My mind unhinged now only creaks, and when I tell my woes
I'm forced to lisp in _numbers_ what I'd rather say in prose.
Sweet maiden _perpendicular_! She gave a _slanting_ sigh
As o'er my kneeling form she cast a calculating eye.
"Ah! well" said I, "you _cipher_ me, for if you'll not be mine
From out this pocket next my heart I'll _straight produce a line_;
So ere you are, dear _Polly_, _gone_, pray heed your lover's vow,
Or he dangles _at right angles_ to some _horizontal_ bough."
The maid flew in no _frustrum_--like your giddy gushing girls--
But standing calm and frigid, shook her strictly _spiral_ curls,
And said, "You see we're equal as to station: very well!
_Our paths in life could never meet, because they're parallel._"
Her voice was so serrated that I fled this maid antique;
Then, approaching her _obliquely_, _at a tangent_ took her cheek!
The kiss was too _elliptical_! She vanished into space!
And a circulating obelisk now marks the fatal place.
Weeks fled. My doctor shook his head and said, "You must embark
For an utter change." I did: and went aboard a leaky _Arc_
Bound for the hot _Quadratics_, where I landed for a week,
And joined the aborigines in every savage freak.
I felled primeval forests with the _axes of a cube_,
At the feathery _Parabolas_ I aimed the loaded tube;
(For while aboard the Arc, you see, I found on _deck a gun_,
And, cunning as a Crusoe, put it by for future fun.)
While safe within some _brackets_ I have watched those bulky brutes,
The snorting _Parallelograms_ that feed upon _square roots_;
Their noise would rouse the forest till each denizen therein
Woke up and did its "level best" to swell the horrid din.
Oh! the shrieking of the _Cylinder_! the _Pyramid's base_ moan,
The clucking of the _Sector_ and the cooing of the _Cone_!
Then a lull perhaps, while distant ululations would reveal
The natives chanting grace before their missionary meal.
In truth it was an evil place, for a _Vinculum_ might rise
At any moment in your path and wobble its wild eyes;
And oft, when looking for a _log_ I'd shake in ev'ry joint
For fear some deadly _Decimal_ might sting me with its _point_.
At last I plucked up courage, though, and even gained renown
In getting gallant trophies for my home in Camden Town:
I killed the cruel _Quatrefoil_ to take her snarling cub,
Or doubled up a cannibal to get his graven club;
I trapped the roaring _Rhombuses_, those beasts of fearful strength,
And the _Parallelopipedon_, a snake of awful length;
Oft I bestrode the _Algebra_ and charged in wild career
The proud opaque _Hypotenuse_ and jabbed him with my spear.
'Tis past! I'm now in London: yet my reason's all awry.
I'm yearning for a vanished maid who gave a slanting sigh.
Nor may we meet in Dreamland: e'en there I'm robbed of rest,
For a wizened old _Trapezium_ sits sulking on my chest;
Or two _triangles_ she jangles with a semilunar leer,
Till I wake--with hair erect--in one _diagonal_ of fear!
And mark to the clang of _symbols_, phantom figures march all day
In _co-efficient_ cohorts--_Major Axis_ leads the way.
In short, from early morn until I shuffle off to bed,
But one equation's clear to me,--_o_=_ayz_.
(_By permission of the Author._)
WAITING AT TOTTLEPOT.
J. ASHBY-STERRY.
An hour to wait! Well that's a nuisance, but I suppose there is no help
for it.
I cannot possibly go on without my portmanteau. And they may send the
wrong one after all. I believe my friend the dismal porter--the faded
misanthrope in corduroys, only telegraphed for a brown portmanteau.
There are probably twenty brown portmanteaux at this present moment
waiting at Jigby Junction, and if I know anything of railway officials,
they will be sure to send the wrong one. So here I must wait.
I suppose I must have made a mistake in the train. No trap, dog-cart, or
conveyance of any kind to meet me from Clewmere. Wonder whether they had
my telegram. The Faded Misanthrope says he is quite certain nothing has
been over from Clewmere since the day before yesterday. And then he says
Sir Charles and some of the young ladies came in the waggonette. They
waited to see two trains in, he told me, and then drove away saying
there must be some mistake. Hope I did not say Tuesday instead of
Thursday, or what is far more likely, write Thursday to look like
Tuesday. I ask my friend the porter if there is any other way of getting
to Clewmere. "No," he says, "it is a longish walk, a matter of twelve or
thirteen miles, and a pretty rough road too."
"Now," he says "if it had only been Saturday instead of Thursday, there
is Smaggleton's 'bus, as 'ud put you down within five minutes' walk of
the lodge. Smaggleton don't run every day, he don't; he only runs o'
Saturdays, bein' market day at Stamborough, and a pooty full load he
gets there and back, which pays Smaggleton very well. And Smaggleton
wants it," he continues, "what with the branch line to Stamborough,
Smaggleton's business ain't what it was; he can't afford to turn up his
nose at a few farmers and their missusses now-a-days. Smaggleton must
take things as they come--the good and the bad, the rough and the
smooth--as well as the rest of us. Lor, bless you, Sir, I recollect when
Smaggleton used to drive about in his dog-cart, in a light top coat, a
white hat and a rose in his button-hole, he always was quite the----"
As I do not feel particularly interested in the rise, progress or
downfall of Smaggleton, I am obliged to interrupt my garrulous friend,
and ask if they did not let out flys at the Crackleton Arms, hard by. He
informs me, they certainly do "in a usual way." But he adds, they have
only two flys. One is having something done to the wheels, and the other
went away early this morning to take some friends of Squire Bullamore's
to a pic-nic. He furthermore tells me that Cudgerry, the carrier, would
perhaps be able to give me a lift, but he would not be here till seven
o'clock this evening. As they dine at Clewmere at eight, of course
Cudgerry is quite out of the question. My friend shakes his head, he
retires into a dark, greasy room, which seems to be devoted to lamps,
and I continue my walk up and down the platform.
Cannot imagine why they ever built a station at Tottlepot. Nobody ever
wants to stop at Tottlepot, there is no trade at Tottlepot--indeed,
nobody ought to be allowed to stop at Tottlepot; and Tottlepot as a
Station ought to be forthwith disestablished and erased from the railway
map of Great Britain. If I had left the train at Jigby Junction, I
should not have lost my portmanteau, I could have hired a fly, and
should by this time have been quietly lunching at Clewmere Court instead
of pacing up and down the Tottlepot platform like a wild beast in his
den.
I have often waited at stations before. Every kind of station, little
and big, all over the Continent and England, and have generally found
that waiting productive of considerable amusement. But Tottlepot is
quite a different thing. I think it was Albert Smith who once spoke of
the depth of dulness being achieved by "spending a wet Sunday, all by
yourself, in a hack cab in the middle of Salisbury Plain." Had he been
compelled to wait on a fine Thursday at Tottlepot he would have
discovered a depth yet lower. The only thing in my favour is, it is
fine. If it were wet I cannot imagine what I should do. There is a small
room I see labelled "Waiting-Room." It is about the size of a
bathing-machine and half filled with parcels and bandboxes. If you had
to wait there you would be compelled to sit with your legs right across
the down platform; the only use of that waiting-room would be to keep
your hat dry.
There is not a refreshment room, there is not even a book-stall. I cannot
even cheer myself with an ancient bath bun, a glass of cloudy beer, or
two penny-worth of acidulated drops. (If there happened to be a
refreshment room at Tottlepot that is exactly the kind of refreshment
they would give you). Neither can I pass away the time by purchasing a
penny paper, and taking a free read of all the novels and publications
awaiting purchasers. There are no advertisements, no lovely oil
paintings of sea-side resorts, which are all the more charming from
being not the least like the place they are supposed to represent; there
are no bills of entertainments; no auctioneers' and house-agents'
notices; no posters concerning hotels, nor glass-cases containing
photographic specimens. It is just the place for Mark Tapley to come to
as station-master. And he, with all his power of being jolly under the
most disadvantageous circumstances, would probably be found under the
wheels of a passing express within a fortnight.
And talking about the station-master reminds me I have not yet seen
him. Possibly my friend, the Faded Misanthrope in corduroys, is
station-master. If so, he has to clean the lamps, send telegrams, take
and issue tickets, look after the baggage, attend to the signals,
cultivate his garden, pay visits to the Crackleton Arms, and superintend
the traffic of the station generally. I do not wonder at his appearing
to be somewhat depressed. The only thing of a lively nature I see about
the place is a fine black cat, with enormous green eyes, which might be
utilised as "caution" signals when the porter, in consequence of his
multifarious duties, was unable to reach the signal-box. This cat was
evidently very much pleased to see me indeed. It followed me up and down
the platform like a dog, and it purred like a saw-pit in full work.
A very tiny pale governess, with two big bouncing rosy girls, in the
highest of spirits, the shortest of petticoats and the longest of hair,
cross the line. I fancy those young ladies are daughters of the Vicar,
and I may meet their excellent mamma at dinner to-night. The governess
passes demurely through the side wicket. One of her charges tries to do
a sort of Blondin feat by walking along the glistening iron rail and
falls down; the eldest boldly clambers over the five-barred gate and
shows a shapely pair of legs, clad in sable hose and snow-white frilled
pantalettes. "What did I tell you, Lil?" says the governess in the
mildest voice to the first. "Very well, Gil, wait till we get home!" she
remarks in yet sweeter tones to the second. The two children rejoin her
at once and take her hand, and disappear down the lane. I am left to
wonder how she acquires this influence over them, for they are as tall
as she is and infinitely stronger--they could eat her, were they so
minded. I wonder too what will happen to Gil when they get home? Will
mamma be told? No, I fancy this mild little governess is quite equal to
controlling, unaided, these big bouncing girls.
My friend the porter has by this time got through a quantity of business
of a varied nature, and is enjoying a little light relaxation by digging
violently in his garden. He has taken off his jacket, and a good deal of
his depression seems to have been removed at the same time--it _must_ be
depressing to be compelled to reside in a somewhat tight corduroy jacket
all your life--and as he digs he hums to himself a sort of merry dirge.
I endeavour to enter into the spirit of the thing, and sympathise with
him in his relaxation. I say cheerfully, as if I knew all about it, "Ah!
nice fine weather for the----!" I cannot for the life of me think what
it is nice fine weather for. My friend says, "Eh?" I observe he is not
so respectful in his private as in his porterial capacity. I reply,
"Quite so!" whereupon he rejoins, "Ha! but we could do wi' a bit o' rain
for the----." Cannot catch remainder of his sentence; but I never yet
met a gardener who couldn't "do wi' a bit o' rain" for something or
other.
We begin to be quite voluble on the subject of plants and crops. I find
he knows so much more on the subject than I do, but I merely nod my head
and smile weakly and presently move quietly away. When I reach the other
end of the platform I hear the sharp jingle of the telegraph bell and
the jerk of the signal levers. Presently a very prim and neat
station-master appears, who looks as if he had just been turned out of
one of the band-boxes in the waiting room. There is also a very active
boy porter, who is apparently trying to run over the station-master with
a truck. My old friend is walking slowly along the platform. He has left
the gay horticulturist in the garden, and has assumed the Faded
Misanthrope with his corduroy jacket. He tells me that the train is now
coming--the one that will bring my portmanteau. The train presently
stops; a few dazed agriculturists, and a very stout fussy old lady,
half-a-dozen milk cans, and my portmanteau are put out.
I am gazing at the latter to be quite sure it is my own, when I hear
myself addressed by name. I turn round and see a smart groom whose face
I know well. "Anything else beside the portmanteau, sir?" he says,
touching his hat. "Sir Charles is outside with the waggonette; the new
pair is a little bit fresh, and he don't like to leave 'em."
That is all right. I think to myself I shall dine at Clewmere after all.
(_By permission of the Author._)
MARRIED TO A GIANTESS.
WALTER PARKE.
I loved her with all my heart, and, indeed, it took all my heart to
accomplish the feat; for, in sooth, there was a great deal--a very great
deal--of her to love. Although only "sweet seventeen," she had reached
the commanding stature of nine feet nine inches, and, to use the words
of a familiar advertisement, she was "still growing."
From my childhood I had doated on the gigantic, loved the lofty, admired
the massive, and had a weakness for strength. The tales I best loved
were those of giants.
Can you wonder, then, that when I heard that the celebrated Samothracian
Giantess, Goliathina Immensikoff, from the wilds of Wallachia, the
largest woman in the world, was approaching London, my soul was stirred
by the news as by a trumpet-call? I read with the deepest interest the
accounts of her antecedents. I learnt how she was discovered in the
Wilds of Wallachia by Whiteley, the World's Provider, who had "taken her
from the bosom of her family"--and here I could not help exclaiming,
"What a stupendous 'bosom' that 'family' must have had!"
As I reclined on my sofa, smoking the largest possible meerschaum, and
reading with absorbing interest these accounts of one who was certainly
"born to greatness," I suddenly came to a terrific and almost appalling
resolve. Involuntarily I exclaimed, aloud, "She shall be mine!"
Yet how could I hope for success? To win so great a being one must be
not only a lady-killer, but a giant-killer also; and though I bear a
"big" name myself--Hector Gogmagog--Nature has denied me either
extraordinary personal attractions or lofty stature. How hopeless, then,
for me to aspire to the affection of the Monumental Maiden of
Samothracia! Five feet five pitted against nine feet nine is to be
pitted indeed!
But love laughs at obstacles. That evening I went to the Royal Escurial
Theatre, where Mademoiselle Goliathina was performing, and sat
enthralled to witness her impersonation of the Queen of Brobdingnag. The
pictures had not exaggerated. She was "every inch a queen"--a phrase of
some significance when the number of inches mounts up to one hundred and
seventeen.
The next step was to get an introduction. This I accomplished to my
satisfaction, and though at first naturally overawed by her Leviathan
aspect, thenceforward my wooing proceeded rapidly. I had several
interviews with the colossal charmer, at which I had the satisfaction of
discovering that I was more in her eyes than some other men who were
nearer to herself in point of stature. Words of encouragement coming
from those lips, so near and yet so far away, words spoken in soft
Wallachian, yet in tones that Stentor might have envied--elevated me to
the seventh heaven of pride and delight. I already felt taller by
inches--but what was _that_ to her nine feet nine?
I sent her the very biggest bouquets, such as occupied a whole hansom
cab each; love letters, their weight barely covered by eight stamps; and
valentines that would only go by parcels delivery.
All this had its effect. She would have been less than woman, instead of
a very great deal _more_--had she been insensible to my devotion. Can I
ever forget what the poet ecstatically calls "the first kiss of
love"--how, at considerable inconvenience to herself, she bent that
statuesque form to accommodate herself to my limited stature? That
_was_, indeed, "stooping to conquer."
Yet with all this encouragement, it was in fear and trembling that I
approached the momentous question. Fancy a refusal from those lips. It
would be crushing indeed!
"Dearest Goliathina," I said, standing upon the head of the sofa, in
order to place myself upon something like her own exalted level, "say,
oh, say you will be mine. You may be sure of my lifelong devotion. You
will be all in all to me, and, in fact, much more than all; for you are
far too large to be merely my better half. I shall always make much of
you, and look up to you as one infinitely above me. Fortunately, I have
a large heart; but as you occupy it entirely, it would be perfectly
impossible for me to find room for any other object. Were you to reject
me, there would be an immeasurable void in my life, and who else is
capable of filling it?"
She was evidently affected; for what the poet calls a "big round
tear"--and goodness knows _how_ big round tear it was in this
case--could be perceived starting from each of her moonlike eyes. I
clasped her hand--which in point of length was a _foot_--and she did not
withdraw it.
"Fondest Hector," she responded, "I am thine!"
And she leant her head upon my shoulder. I staggered; but by the
exertion of all my strength I was able for some moments to sustain that
delicious burden.
Our wedding took place before the Registrar, who, being of a nervous
temperament, was so overwhelmed at the towering dimensions of the bride,
that he could scarcely get through the ceremony. It was all as private
as so abnormal an affair could possibly be kept, and for a time the
famous female colossus figured no longer at the Royal Escurial as Queen
Brobdingnag, a substitute only six feet two inches having been provided.
Marrying a giantess has its inconveniences. I had to have a house built
with exceptionally lofty rooms and doors ten feet high, with furniture
on a corresponding scale. An ordinary carriage was of no use to my wife,
whose size also frightened the horses; so we had a sort of triumphal car
built, drawn by a circus elephant. It was expensive, but an excellent
advertisement in a theatrical sense. She could never walk out without
being mobbed, and terrifying babies. She dared not visit a friend's
house for fear of frightening the children and destroying the furniture.
And fancy her at a dance! Moreover, our housekeeping expenses were
something frightful.
Anon, darker shadows hovered around our domestic sphere. Her temper
proved to be at times uncertain. At the least attempt to thwart any of
her strange caprices, she grew infuriated; and when annoyed, she had a
way of putting me on the top of a high bookcase, or locking me up in a
cupboard, box, or trunk--for I have said all our belongings were on a
gigantic scale--which was peculiarly humiliating.
About this time we became acquainted with Morlock Mastodon, Drum-Major
to his highness the Grand Duke of Samothracia. The Major, though of
small stature compared with my wife, was considered a giant by ordinary
men, being seven feet ten in height. My fondness for giants rendered
him an eligible acquaintance to me. Mrs. Gogmagog naturally took to one
of her own gigantic species; and the Major was pleased to say that ours
was the only comfortable and commodious house in England--he meant the
only one in which the doors were ten feet high, and the chair-seats four
feet from the ground. Anyhow, he soon made himself at home with us--too
_much_ at home, as I couldn't help thinking. I didn't mind him and my
wife being good friends; but when, in their gigantic loftiness, they
seemed to overlook me altogether, I began to entertain natural feelings
of jealousy. Besides, the Major owed me money--large sums in proportion
to his size, which he had borrowed under the obviously false pretence
that he was "_very short_ just now;" and he seemed in no hurry to pay it
back. What could I do? It was rather a risky thing to expostulate with a
man of seven feet ten; and to turn him out of the house would have been
a task altogether beyond my physical strength. At all events I could
resolve that he should never enter it again; and I gave strict
injunctions that always in future when Major Mastodon called there was
to be "nobody at home."
Moreover, I actually summoned up courage to tell my wife of my
resolution, and even to remonstrate with her upon her own demeanour
towards the gallant and gigantic Major. Then she got into a rage. And
_such_ a rage! Heavens! what had I done? What would become of me? I was
as one who had called down upon his devoted head the wrath of the gods
or of the Titans.
She drew herself up to her full height of nearly ten feet, her eyes
glared like those of a demoniac, and grasping my arm in her Herculean
clutch, she lifted me bodily from the ground.
"Hands off!" I exclaimed, struggling. "Hit one your own size!"
"_My_ own size!" she thundered, in a _contralto profundo_ voice that
shook the very roof. "Where am I to find 'em? The only person
approximating to my own size you have forbidden the house. You--_you_
dare try and control my actions--you, whom I could crush like a
blue-bottle--attempt to dictate to _me_! I will stand this no longer.
You have offended me once too often. You die!"
"Beware, fearful female!" I gasped. "Colossal as you are, the arm of the
law is still longer and even stronger than yours. Kill me, and you will
assuredly die for it!"
She gave a laugh of scorn.
"Me?" she cried. "Do you believe they would hang _me_? No; I am above
all laws, and I have sworn that you shall die!"
And in spite of my struggles she flung me, as easily as if I had been a
doll, right out of the third storey window. Down I fell, down, down,
till I--
---- found myself on the floor. I had tumbled off the sofa, and so
awakened from my terrific dream. Heavens! what a relief to find that
after all I was _not_ married to a giantess, that it was all a vision
due to my falling asleep over the advertisement, and that Mdlle.
Goliathina was but a gigantic nightmare.
(_By permission of the Author._)
THE VISION OF THE ALDERMAN.
HENRY S. LEIGH.
An Alderman sat at a festive board,
Quaffing the blood-red wine,
And many a Bacchanal stave outpour'd
In praise of the fruitful vine.
Turtle and salmon and Strasbourg pie
Pippins and cheese were there;
And the bibulous Alderman wink'd his eye,
For the sherris was old and rare.
But a cloud came o'er his gaze eftsoons,
And his wicked old orbs grew dim;
Then drink turn'd each of the silver spoons
To a couple of spoons for _him_.
He bow'd his head at the festive board,
By the gaslight's dazzling gleam:
He bow'd his head and he slept and snor'd,
And he dream'd a fearful dream.
Far, carried away on the wings of Sleep,
His spirit was onward borne,
Till he saw vast holiday crowds in Chepe
On a ninth November morn.
Guns were booming and bells ding-dong'd,
Ethiop minstrels play'd;
And still, wherever the burghers throng'd,
Brisk jongleurs drove their trade.
Scarlet Sheriffs, the City's pride,
With a portly presence fill'd
The whole of the courtyard just outside
The hall of their ancient Guild.
And in front of the central gateway there,
A marvellous chariot roll'd,
(Like gingerbread at a country fair
'Twas cover'd with blazing gold).
And a being, array'd in pomp and pride
Was brought to the big stone gate;
And they begg'd that being to mount and ride
In that elegant coach of state.
But, oh! he was fat, so ghastly fat,
Was that being of pomp and pride,
That, in spite of many attempts thereat,
He _couldn't_ be pushed inside.
That being was press'd, but press'd in vain,
Till the drops bedew'd his cheek;
The gilded vehicle rock'd again,
And the springs began to creak.
The slumbering alderman groan'd a groan,
For a vision he seem'd to trace,
Some horrible semblance to _his own_
In that being's purple face.
And, "Oh!" he cried, as he started up;
"Sooner than come to _that_,
Farewell for ever the baneful cup
And the noxious turtle fat!"--
They carried him up the winding-stair;
They laid him upon the bed;
And they left him, sleeping the sleep of care,
With an ache in his nightcapp'd head.
(_By permission of_ MESSRS. CHATTO & WINDUS.)
THE DEMON SNUFFERS.
GEO. MANVILLE FENN.
I'm not at all given to parading my troubles--nothing of the kind. I may
be getting old, in fact, I am; and I may have had disappointments such
as have left me slightly irritable and peevish; but I ask, as a man, who
wouldn't be troubled in his nerves if he had suffered from snuffers?
Snuffers? Yes--snuffers--a pair of cheap, black, iron snuffers, that
screech when they are opened, and creak when they are shut; a pair that
will not stay open, nor yet keep shut; a pair that gape at you
incessantly, and point at you a horrid sharp iron beak, as a couple of
leering eyes turn the finger and thumb holes into a pair of spectacles,
and squint and wink at you maliciously. A word in your ear--this in a
whisper--those snuffers are haunted! their insignificant iron frame is
the habitation of a demon--an imp of darkness; and I've been troubled
till I've got snuffers on the brain, and I shall have them till I'm
snuffed out.
It has been going on now for a couple of years, ever since my landlady
sent the snuffers up to me first in my shiney crockery-ware candlestick,
where those snuffers glide about like a snake in a tin pail. I remember
the first night as well as can be. It was in November--a weird, wet,
foggy night, when the river-side streets were wrapped in a yellow
blanket of fog--and I was going to bed, when, at my first touch of the
candlestick, those snuffers glided off with an angry snap, and lay,
open-mouthed, glaring at me from the floor.
I was somewhat startled, certainly, but far from alarmed; and I seized
the fugitives and replaced them in the candlestick, opened the door, and
ascended the stairs.
Mind, I am only recording facts untinged by the pen of romance! Before I
had ascended four steps, those hideous snuffers darted off, and plunged,
point downwards, on to my left slippered foot, causing me an agonising
pang, and the next moment a bead of starting blood stained my stocking.
I will not declare this, but I believe it to be a fact: as I said
something oathish, I am nearly certain that I heard a low, fiendish
chuckle; and when I stooped to lift the snuffers, there was a bright
spark in the open mouth, and a pungent blue smoke breathed out to annoy
my nostrils!
I was too bold in those days to take much notice of the incident, and I
hurried upstairs--not, however, without seeing that there was a foul,
black patch left upon my holland stair-cloth; and then I hurried into
bed, and tried to sleep. But I could not, try as I would. In the
darkness I could just make out the candlestick against the blind: and
from that point incessantly the demon snuffers gradually approached me,
till they sat spectacle-wise astride my nose, and a pair of burning eyes
gazed through them right into mine.
Need I say that I arose next morning feverish and unrefreshed to go
about my daily duties?
"I'll have no more of it to-night," I said to myself, as I rose early to
go to bed and make up for the past bad night; and I smiled sardonically
as I took up the highly-glazed candlestick and tried to shake the black,
straddling reptile out upon the sideboard. I say _tried_; for, to my
horror, the great eyeholes leered at me as they hugged round the upright
portion of the stick and refused to be dislodged. I shook them again,
and one part went round the extinguisher support, which the reptile
dislodged, so that the extinguisher rattled upon the sideboard top. But
the snuffers were there still. I tried again, and they, or it, dodged
round and thrust a head through the handle, where they stuck fast,
grinning at me till I set the candlestick down and stared.
"Pooh!--stuff!--ridiculous!" I exclaimed, quite angry at my weak,
imaginative folly; and, determined to act like a man, I seized the
candlestick with one hand, the snuffers with the other, and, after a
hard fight, succeeded in wriggling them out of their stronghold, banged
them down upon the table cloth, seized them again, snuffed my candle
viciously before replacing them on the table, and then marched out of
the room, proud of my moral triumph, and rejoicing in having freed
myself of the demon. But, as I stood upon the stairs, I could see that
my hand was blackened; and the icy, galvanic feeling that assailed my
nerves when I first touched the snuffers still tingled right to my
elbow.
But I was free of my enemy; and marching with freely playing lungs into
my bedroom, I closed and locked the door, set down my empty candlestick,
changed my coat and vest for a dressing-gown and began to brush my hair.
It is my custom to brush my hair with a pair of brushes for ten minutes
every night before retiring to rest. I find it strengthening to the
brain. Upon this occasion I had brushed hard for five minutes, when
there was a loud knock at my bed-room door.
"Can I speak to you a moment, sir?" said the voice of my landlady.
I rose and opened the door, and then started back in disgust, as I was
greeted with--
"Please, sir, you forgot your snuffers!"
My snuffers! It was too horrible; but there was more to bear.
"And please, sir, I do hope you'll be more careful. It's a mussy we
warn't all burnt to death in our beds, for the snuffers have made a
great hole as big as your hand in the tablecloth, and scorched the
mahogany table; and it was a mussy I went into your room before I went
up to bed."
I couldn't speak, for I was drawn irresistibly on to obey, as my
landlady held the snuffers-handle towards me, and pointed to the fungus
snuff upon the common candle. I thrust in a finger and thumb, closed the
door in desperation--for I could not refuse the snuffers--once more
locked myself in, and stalked to the dressing-table; and, as I heard my
landlady's retreating steps, I snuffed the candle, which started up
instantly with a brighter flame, as the snuffers' mouth closed upon the
incandescent wick.
"I'm slightly nervous," I said to myself, as I essayed to put down my
enemies. "I want tone--iron--iodine--tonic bitters--and--curse the
thing!" I ejaculated, shaking my hand and trying to dislodge the
snuffers. My efforts were but vain, for the rings clung tightly to my
finger and thumb, cut into my flesh, and it was not until I had given
them a frantic wrench, which broke the rivet and separated the halves,
that I was able to tear out my bruised digits, and stand, panting, at
the broken instrument.
There was relief, though, here. I felt as if I had crushed out the
reptile's life; and the two pieces--their living identity gone--lay
nerveless, and devoid of terrors, in the candle tray.
I slept excellently that night, and smiled as I dressed beside the
broken fragments. I had achieved a victory over self, as well as over an
enemy. I enjoyed my breakfast, after raising the white cloth to look at
the damage, which I knew would appear as twenty shillings in the weekly
bill; but I did not care, though I shuddered slightly as I thought of
the snuffers' horrible designs. I dined that day with friends, played a
few games afterwards at pool, and then we had oysters.
I was in the best of spirits as I opened the door with my latchkey, and
I laughed heartily at what I called my folly of the previous nights;
but, as I entered my room, there was the great black hole in the green
cloth table cover, and the charred wood beneath, while, upon the
sideboard----
I groaned as I stood, half transfixed. I could have imagined that I had
on divers leaden-soled boots; for there, maliciously grinning at me with
half-opened mouth, were the demon snuffers, joined together by a new,
glistening rivet, which only added to their weird appearance, as the
beak cocked itself at me, and the great eyes glared, as the black mouth
seemed to say--
"You'll never get rid of me!"
Something seemed to draw me, and I went and took the candlestick, my
eyes being fixed the while upon the snuffers; and I came in contact with
several pieces of furniture as I went into the passage, where I held the
candlestick very much on one side as I lit the candle at the little
lamp. I hoped that the snuffers would fall out; but they grinned
maliciously, and did not stir.
The next moment I was obliged to use them, for the candle began to
gutter; when, as nothing followed, I grew bolder, and began to ascend
the stairs. In a minute, though before I was half way up the second
flight, and though the candlestick was carried perfectly
straight--crash! the demon snuffers darted out, and dashed themselves
upon the floor.
I did not stay to look, but hurried to my bed-room, closing and locking
the door.
"Safe this time!" I thought; for it was late, and I knew that my
landlady must have been long in bed. Then I began to
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