Moral.
It's a wise chicken in these days that knows
its own mother.
XXVII.
THAT OF A DUEL IN FRANCE.
Oh, Fa-la-la! likewise Hélas!
A shocking thing has come to pass,
For Monsieur Henri Delapaire
Has fallen out,—a sad affair,—
With Monsieur Jacques Mallette.
"La femme?" Of course! They both declare
They love la belle Nannette.
Ma foi! They'll surely come to blows,
For one has tweaked the other's nose,
Who quickly snaps, with fierce grimace,
His fingers in the other's face.
A duel must result.
A Frenchman's honour 'twould disgrace
To bear with such insult.
"Pistols for two!"—in French,—they cry.
Nannette to come between doth fly:
"Messieurs! Messieurs! pray, pray be calm!
You fill your Nannette with alarm."
"Parole d'honneur! No.
Revenge!" they cry. The big gendarme,
Nannette to call, doth go.
Quickly a crowd has gathered round,
Pistols are brought, and seconds found;
A grassy space beneath the trees,
Where gentlemen may fight at ease;
Then, each takes off his coat—
Glaring meanwhile as though he'd seize
The other by the throat.
The seconds shrug, gesticulate,
And pace the ground with step sedate;
Then anxious consultation hold
O'er pistols, for the rivals bold
Who now stand white and stern;
Their arms across their chests they fold,
And sideways each doth turn.
The seconds place them vis-à-vis,
And give them word to fire at "three";
Brave Monsieur Mallette shuts his eyes,
And points his pistol to the skies;
Brave Monsieur Delapaire
His hand to steady vainly tries,
It trembles in the air.
A deadly silence: "Un—deux—trois!"
Two shots are ringing through the Bois.
Two shots,—and then two awful calms;
As, senseless, in their seconds' arms
The duellists both lay.
(Their faces pale the crowd alarms,
And fills them with dismay.)
"Killed?" Goodness gracious—oh, dear no!
This couldn't be,—in France,—you know,
For pistols there they never load.
But caps were they which did explode:
They've only swooned with fright.
See! one some signs of life has showed;
The crowd claps with delight.
They both revive. They both embrace.
Twice kiss each other on the face.
* * *
"Stay! Hold!" you cry. "You said, I thought,
La belle Nannette the gendarme sought?"
She did,—la belle Nannette,—
She sought, and found him—charming quite.
She stays there with him yet.
She "never cared for Delapaire,"
She says with most dégagé air;
And "as for Monsieur Mallette,—well,
He may discover—who can tell?—
Someone to marry yet."
Meanwhile le gendarme pour la belle,
The fickle, fair Nannette.
XXVIII.
THAT OF THE ASTUTE NOVELIST.
Quite an ordinary person
Wrote an ordinary book;
'Twas the first he'd ever written,
So a lot of pains he took.
From a two-a-penny paper
He some little factlets[[2]] culled,
With some "stories of celebrities"
By which the Public's gulled.
Then of course he had a hero,
And likewise a heroine,
And a villain, and a villainess,
Whose nefarious design
Was most properly defeated
In the chapter last but one,—
Which described the happy ending—
There you were! The thing was done.
But, somehow, it didn't answer.
"Nothing strange," you'll say, "in that";
And, indeed, perhaps there wasn't
Very much to wonder at,
For the book was really never
Calculated fame to win,
And the author's coat grew shabby
And his body very thin.
And he pondered, and he pondered
O'er his misery and ills,
Till, one day, he met a party
Who was posting up some bills.
"What's the matter?" asked this person,
"You are looking mighty glum.
Books not selling? Advertise 'em.
That's the dodge to make things hum."
"Look at 'Whatsit's Soap,' and so on!
Look at 'Thingumbobby's Pills!'
It's the advertising does it,
And the owner's pocket fills.
Puff 'em up; the Public likes it;
And—(this from behind his hand)—
It doesn't matter if it's
Not quite true, you understand."
So the author wrote another
Book, and brought in Tsars, and Kings,
And Popes, and noble ladies—
Queens, and Duchesses, and things
And "the problem" of the moment;
And some politics, and cram,
With tit-bits of foreign language
Mixed with literary jam.
And in type he had it stated
That "the world was all agog"
For this "epoch-making" novel,
And—their memory to jog—
The public had it daily
In all kinds of sorts of ways
Their curiosity ablaze.
And from Brixton unto Ponder's End
'Twas daily talked about
This wonderful new novel
Long, long, long before 'twas out;
I forget how many hundred
Thousand copies have been sold;
But it's brought the lucky author
Notoriety, and gold.
Has indeed brought him success;
He's the "lion" of the moment
In Society (big S).
It is even said that Royalty——
But there! I mustn't say,
For he'll tell you all about it
In another book some day.
[2]. A factlet is nearly a fact.
XXIX.
THAT OF THE ABSENT-MINDED LADY.
The lady hailed a passing 'bus,
And sat down with a jerk;
Upon her heated face she wore
A most complacent smirk;
Three parcels held she in her lap,
Safe-guarded from the least mishap.
The 'bus it rattled, bumped, and shook—
She didn't seem to mind—
And every now and then she smiled,
As something crossed her mind:
She evidently longed to tell
The joke, that we might smile as well.
"These men!" she said, at last to one
Who sat beside her. "It's absurd.
To hear them rave. They seem to think
That nobody—upon my word—
But men can do things in what they
Are pleased to call the proper way.
"My husband now, he's like the rest,
And said, when I came out
To do some shopping, I'd forget
Something, he had no doubt,
Or else buy more than I desired,
Or something which was not required.
"Now, three things I set out to buy
At Mr. Whiteley's store;
Three parcels here, I'm taking home,
Three parcels, and no more.
My husband he must own ere long
Himself entirely in the wrong."
She smiled,—a most triumphant smile.
"Exactly like the men!"
She said, and I—she looked at me—
Felt much embarrassed then.
Her scorn for men was undisguised;
The other ladies sympathised.
But, presently, I noticed that
Upon the lady's face
No smile was seen—a puzzled frown
Had come there in its place;
She squirmed, and fidgeted about,
And turned her pockets inside out.
She counted over—several times—
Her parcels—"One—two—three;"
Clutched at her purse, her parasol;
Then muttered, "H'm! Dear me!
There's nothing that I haven't got.
What can I have forgotten? What?"
She tapped her foot impatiently;
Stared out into the street;
She got up several times and searched
Quite vaguely o'er the seat;
Then gave a sigh and settled down,
Still wearing that bewildered frown.
Then, evidently lost in thought,
She sat as in a dream,
Till—o'er her face a pallor spread,—
She sprang up, with a scream:
"Oh, stop! Pray stop, conductor! Stop!
I've left the baby in the shop!"
XXX.
THAT OF THE GERMAN BAKER AND THE COOK.
Dese vimens! Ach! dese vimens!
To me id is quide sad
Dat dey can be so bootiful,
Und yet can be so bad.
Dey vonce a fool haf made me
As never vas before;
Bud now I know dose vimens,
Und dey don't do dat no more.
Look! I am here a baker,
Und bread und biscuits bake,
Der dough-nuts, und der cooken,
Und all such tings I make;
Von voman to my shop come,
So bootiful und big,
Her eyes vas plue und shining,
Her hair joost like a vig.
She buy of me some dough-nuts,
She come again next day,
Und in my dough-nuts buying
She stole mine heart avay;
For, ach! she vas so lofely
As never yet I found—
I tink dot even both my arms
Her vaist could not go round.
Von day to me she say: "I vish
I could dose dough-nuts make;
My family is goned avay;
Come now, und ve shall make
Some dough-nuts in my kitchen,
If you vill show me how."
I go. Because I tink, perhaps,
I get her for mine vrow.
Der kitchen id vas big und clean,
Der supper vas set out.
Mit places at der table
For two, mit pie, und stout.
I show her how dough-nuts to make,
Und den ve sit to sup;
Ven comes a vistle at der gate;
Der voman she jumps up.
"Quick! quick!" she say, "here somevon comes,
Und you must herein hide."
She pushes me der pantry in,
Mit nothing else beside.
I peep der keyhole through und see
A big policeman stand;
Der voman seems him pleased to see,
Und shakes him by der hand.
(Dot supper made for me),
Und I am in der pantry shut,
mad as mad can be;
I sit der flour barrel upon,
Der barrel it go through,
Und in der flour I tumble. Ach!
It make me schneize "Tish-oo!"
Der policeman say "Hark! vat is dat?"
Und open burst der door;
Dey see me den,—all vite mit flour
Und tumbled on der floor.
Der voman scream "A burglar man!"
Und tremble, und look pale;
Der policeman den he take me up,
And march me off to gaol.
A fine shall make me pay;
Der policeman und der voman
Dey get married yesterday:
So never now I trust no more
All vimens vat I see;
Dey make again some other man
A fool, but never me.
XXXI.
THAT OF THE CONVERTED CANNIBALS.
Upon an island, all alone,
They lived, in the Pacific;
Somewhere within the Torrid Zone,
Where heat is quite terrific.
'Twould shock you were I to declare
The many things they did not wear,
Altho' no doubt
One's best without
Such things in heat terrific.
Though cannibals by birth were they,
Yet, since they'd first existed,
Their simple menu day by day
Of such-like things consisted:
Omelets of turtle's eggs, and yams,
And stews from freshly-gathered clams,
Such things as these
Were,—if you please,—
Of what their fare consisted.
But after dinner they'd converse,
Nor did their topic vary;
Wild tales of gore they would rehearse,
And talk of missionary.
They'd gaze upon each other's joints,
And indicate the tender points.
Said one: "For us
'Tis dangerous
To think of missionary."
Well, on a day, upon the shore,
As flotsam, or as jetsum,
Some wooden cases,—ten, or more,—
Were cast up. "Let us get some,
And see, my friend, what they contain;
The chance may not occur again,"
Said good Who-zoo.
Said Tum-tum, "Do;
We'll both wade out and get some."
The cases held,—what do you think?—
"Prime Missionary—tinned."
Nay! gentle reader, do not shrink
The man who made it sinned:
He thus had labelled bloater-paste
To captivate the native taste.
He hoped, of course,
This fraud to force
On them. In this he sinned.
Our simple friends knew naught of sin,
They thought that this confection
Was missionary in a tin
According to direction.
For very joy they shed salt tears.
"'Tis what we've waited for, for years,"
Said they. "Hooray!
We'll feast to-day
According to direction."
"'Tis very tough," said one, for he
The tin and all had eaten.
"Too salt," the other said, "for me;
The flavour might be beaten."
It was enough. Soon each one swore
He'd missionary eat no more:
Their tastes were cured,
They felt assured
This flavour might be beaten.
And, should a missionary call
To-day, he'd find them gentle,
With no perverted tastes at all,
And manners ornamental;
He'd be received, I'm bound to say,
In courteous and proper way;
Nor need he fear
To taste their cheer
However ornamental.
XXXII.
THAT OF A FRUITLESS ENDEAVOUR.
Come let us quit the gruesome tales
Of cannibals, and Kings, and things;
On such-like themes my fancy fails,
My muse a simpler story sings:
I'd have you, one and all, consider
To-day a bachelor and "widder."
The bachelor,—named Robinson,
(A clerk, or something, in the City,
Just what, we will not dwell upon),
A pleasant man, and somewhat witty,
But thin,—I've seldom known a thinner,—
Dwelt in the suburbs, out at Pinner.
The widow lived at Pinner too,
Her name Ann Partington, née Gair,
And rich,—if what was said is true,—
Her age was forty; she was fair
And fat—indeed, as for that matter,
I've seldom known a person fatter.
Should I, an eligible man,
In lonely 'diggings' live and die,
When I might marry widow Ann?
I'll call, and tentatively mention
My matrimonial intention."
The widow seemed at first inclined
To close the matter out of hand.
She said: "Yes, thank you, I don't mind,"
(No shyness there, you understand),
But later on said: "No, for us
To marry would be ludicrous.
We'd be the laughing-stock, I fear,
Of neighbours round about,
For you are awfully thin, poor dear,
And I am awfully stout;
I must withhold consideration
Till there's some drastic alteration."
So Robinson determined that
He'd put on flesh somehow;
He'd try all means of getting fat,
And made this solemn vow:
"The widow,—well, he'd do without her
Till he had grown a trifle stouter."
"Laugh and grow fat," somebody said;
So, daily, Robinson
The comic papers duly read,
And gloated thereupon:
He spent no end of pocket money
In things which he considered funny.
And eat!—I tell you he did eat!—
While (this was scarcely wise)
He seldom moved from off his seat,
And took no exercise.
'Twas not surprising, then—now, was it?—
He gained in "adipose deposit."
He did; and when he turned the scale
At twenty stone or more,
He for the widow's house set sail,
And waddled to the door.
She met him—thin as any rat,
For SHE'D been taking Anti-Fat!
XXXIII.
THAT OF THE UNFORTUNATE LOVER.
I often heave a sigh to think
Of poor young A. McDougal,
And his disastrous bold attempt
To learn to play the bugle
(Which, judging from the sad result,
Must be, I fancy, difficult).
It happened thus: McDougal took
His charming young fiancée[[3]]
One evening to a "Monday Pop."
(Her Christian name was Nancy.)
And there they heard—he and this maid,—
A solo on the bugle played.
Fair Nancy was enraptured, and
Said: "Dearest A. McDougal,
I'd love you more than ever if
You'd learn to play the bugle."
McDougal, as a lover should,
Remarked, he'd learn it—"if he could."
That very night, as they walked home,
McDougal was deluded
A bugle into purchasing
(With leather case included),
At more than twice its proper price,
Because it looked "so very nice."
He little thought, poor wretched man,
As he this bargain fixed on,
How it would wreck his future life.
He took it home to Brixton,
And, from that hour, with much concern,
To play upon it tried to learn.
His efforts—so I understand—
At first were not successful.
His landladies objected—which,
Of course, was most distressful;
Then neighbours much annoyed him, for
They sued him in a court of law.
Said he: "'Tis strange, where'er I go
Opprobrium and hooting
My efforts greet. I'd better try
The common, out at Tooting,"
Where,—on his bugle-tootling bent,—
He most appropriately went.
Each evening after business hours
He'd practice—'twas his fancy—
Till he thought he played well enough
To serenade Miss Nancy,
Though (this must be well understood)
His playing really was not good.
He had no ear for music, and
Made discords which were racking;
While as for time, his sense of that
Was quite, entirely, lacking.
Still, excellent was his intent
As unto Nancy's house he went.
"That tune," he thought, "which we first heard,
'Twould doubtless, much engage her,
If I performed the self-same piece"
('Twas something in D major),
Which, knowing nought of C's and D's,
He played in quite a bunch of keys.
* * *
"Who is it making all this noise?"
A voice inquired quite crossly
Above his head. "'Tis I, my love,"
Said A. McDougal, hoarsely.
"Then go away; I've never heard,"
Said Nancy, "noises so absurd."
"My playing—don't you like it?" "No;
And, till you're more proficient,
I will not marry you at all:
I've said it,—that's sufficient."
She closed the window with a bang.
A wild note from the bugle rang—
A wildly, weirdly, wailing note
To set one's blood a-freezing;
A compound 'twixt nocturnal cats,
And wheels which want a-greasing—
For A. McDougal—ah! how sad—
Her heartlessness had driven mad.
And Tooting Common, now, at night
None cross but the undaunted,
For people, living thereabout,
Declare the place is haunted
By one who serenades the moon
With jangled bugle, out of tune.
[3]. Cockney pronunciation please.
XXXIV.
THAT OF THE FEMALE GORILLY.
Och! Oi can't remember roightly
Phwat exactly waz the name
Of the gintleman phwat did it,
But Oi read it all the same—
How he lived insoide a cage, sor
('Twas a moighty strong consarn),
In the middle of the forest,
Monkey language for to larn.
If he larned to spake it roightly
Oi can't say, sor, yis or no;
But he left the cage behoind him,
That for sartin sure Oi know;
For Oi saw it there mesilf, sor—
If ye loike Oi'll tell yez how.
'Tis a moighty cur'ous story
That Oi'm tellin' of yez now.
'Tis some many years agone, sor,
Oi forget phwy Oi waz sint
With the great explorin' party,
But they axed me,—an' Oi wint.
An' the forests that we passed through,
An' the rivers that we crossed,
Phwat with one thing an' another
Ivery man but me waz lost.
But Oi still kept on explorin',
Walkin' by mesilf for moiles,
An' a-swimmin' over rivers,
Filled with hungry crocodoiles,
Till wan day a big gorilly
Oi saw standin' in the road,
And, phwen Oi saw the cratur,
"Och, bedad!" Oi cried, "Oi'm blow'd."
For Oi took him for a Christian.
Dressed in plant'in leaves and things,
With a bonnet on his head, sor,
An' around his neck some rings
Ov berries from the trees, sor,
An', sez Oi, "It seems to me,
By the manner of his dressin',
It's most loikely he's a she."
She waz that, an' by the same, sor,
When Oi bowed and raised me hat,
She jist flung her arms around me,
And then down beside me sat.
Oi could see she'd fell in love, sor,
An' Oi came all over hot,
For a big female gorilly
'S worse than any Hottentot.
An' Oi rasoned with her thus, sor:
"Oi can't marry yez, becaze
Oi've wan woife in Ballyhooly,
An' another wan that waz
Me woife up in Killarney;
If Oi marry yez, ye see,
They'll call it bigamy, perhaps,
Or trigonometry."
But she didn't understand, sor,
An' she stayed with me all day,
An' she growled an' showed her teeth, sor,
When Oi tried to get away;
Then she led me to her home, sor—
It waz made insoide the cage,
(That the gintleman Oi told yez ov
Had left there, Oi'll engage.)
"An' ye mane to shut me up in that,
Ye ugly great gorilly?"
Thinks Oi. "Bedad! ye won't, thin.
D'ye take me for a silly?"
So when she opens wide the door,
Oi steps asoide politely;
She walks insoide, Oi shuts the door,
An' fastens it up toightly.
An' a moighty lucky thing it waz
Oi fastened her up so, sor;
What would have happened otherwise
Oi really do not know, sor.
But Oi left her far behind me,
Still a-yellin' in her rage,
An' if the gintleman goes back,
He'll find her—in the cage.
XXXV.
THAT OF THE ARTIST AND THE MOTOR-CAR.
(Tragedy.)
There lived an artist,
Not unknown to fame—
Wild horses wouldn't
Drag from me his name.
Besides, it doesn't matter,—not a bit,—
It is sufficient, painting was his lit-
Tle game.
He copied Turner-
Esque effects with ease,
And painted cattle,—
Miniatures,—or seas;
Yet found some difficulty, I've heard said,
In making both ends meat, (or even bread,
And cheese).
In his stu-di-o,
Grieving that times were
Bad, and prices low,
When, suddenly, this thought occurred to him,
(Of course, 'twas but a fancy, or a whim,
You know):
"How strange 'twould be if
What I painted here
Upon the canvas
Really should appear!
I wish it would, and then remain for good.
Upon my word, ha-ha! I say! That would
Be queer!"
No sooner had the
Thought occurred to him
Than round and round the
Studio seemed to swim.
A fairy voice declared: "On your behalf
The wish is granted!" then "Ha! ha!" ('Twas laugh-
Ter grim.)
Cried. "Of course, there are
No fairies now; we're
Too advanced by far
To think it; still, with just a line or so
Upon the canvas here, I'll draw a mo-
Tor-car."
He drew, and scarce had
Finished it before
His servant knocked. (Up-
On her face she wore
A puzzled look.) "Sir, here's your coat and hat,
And, if you please, your motor-car is at
The door!"
Could believe his eyes,
For what he saw quite
Filled him with surprise:
There stood the very motor-car he'd meant,
In make, and pattern, most convenient,
And size.
"Well! as it's here, I'll
Use the thing," he cried.
(Indeed, what was there
To be done beside?)
So, watched by quite a crowd about the door,
He turned the crank, and off he started for
A ride.
On went the motor-
Car, on—"pop-pop-pop!"—
On through the streets, and
On past house and shop,
Through country lanes, and over hill and dell,
Delightfully,—until he thought it well
To stop.
Try whate'er he would—
He hadn't drawn quite
Everything he should;
Some little crank, or something, he'd not done,
Because the mechanism he'd not un-
Derstood.
Result? Poor fellow!
To this day, he flies
Along the roads, with
Starting eyes, and cries
For help—which nobody can give him, for
He's doomed to ride until the thing busts, or—
He dies.
XXXVI.
THAT OF THE INCONSIDERATE NABOB AND THE
LADY WHO DESIRED TO BE A BEGUM.
Begums! Exactly what they are
I really ought to know—but don't;
In my Encyclopædia
I'll look them up. Stay! No, I won't.
Instead, let us converse together
About Miss Mary Merryweather.
A guileless child of nature, she
Who lived out Upper Norwood way,
A Begum she desired to be,
And dreamt about this night and day,
But,—though she made a solemn vow to
Be a Begum,—knew not how to.
"What is a Begum?" friends would ask,
And Mary M—— would shake her head.
"Though doubtless it will be a task
I'll find out for myself," she said.
They raised their hands in consternation
At this announced determination.
Later Miss Merryweather said:
"To be a Begum one must go
To India. I'd better wed
A captain on a P. and O.
I'll therefore marry Captain Jolly."
(A kind old man who called her "Polly.")
"Though what on earth a girl could see,"
He said, while on their honeymoon,
"Attractive in a man like me——"
Then Mrs. Jolly very soon
(Though doubtless with some trepidation)
Explained to him the situation.
Good Captain Jolly sighed, and said:
"A Begum you can never be,
My dearest Poll, till I am dead;
Perhaps I'd better die," said he.
"If you don't mind, I think you'd better,"
Said she; "'twill suit me to the letter."
So Captain Jolly, worthy soul,
Deceased, as she desired him to.
In India—the lady's goal;
A wealthy Nabob came in view,
Whom Widow Jolly captivated.
And,—later,—married, as is stated.
"A Begum now at last am I,"
She said, when she had married him,
"A Begum!" said the Nabob. "Why?"
His wife explained. "A harmless whim,"
Said he; "but I regret to state, Ma'am,
You're not what you anticipate, Ma'am.
And not a Nabob's, don't you see;
And so throughout my natural life
A Begum you can never be."
She wept—and hinted Captain Jolly
Had died to please his little Polly.
"Perhaps you——" "No, I won't," he cried;
"I draw the line," said he, "at that.
Although poor Jolly may have died
To please you—I refuse. That's flat!"
* * *
And so, alas! for her endeavour,
She never was a Begum,—never!
XXXVII.
THAT OF DR. FARLEY, M.D., SPECIALIST IN LITTLE TOES.
Ever heard of Dr. Farley,
Doctor Farley, sir, M.D.,
Living in the street of Harley,
Street of Harley, Number Three?
Simple fact is, don't you know,
He had but a tiny practice,
Tiny practice, down at Bow.
Consultations for a shilling,
For a shilling, sir, with pills;
For this sum he e'en was willing,
Willing, sir, to cure all ills.
Pains in "tum-tums" he would cure a,
Cure a man of, in a night,
With Ip. Cac. and Aqua pura
(Aqua pura his delight).
He was, too, a skilful surgeon,
Skilful surgeon, yet his fee—
Seldom was it known to verge on,
Even verge on, two and three.
Work at this rate wasn't paying,
Wasn't paying—what surprise?
So he sold his practice, saying,
Saying, "I must specialize."
"That's the way to pick up money,
Pick up money, so I'm told."
So he did it. Now—it's funny,
Funny, but—he rolls in gold.
His success himself surprises,
Much surprises, for he knows
That he only specialises,
Specialises, little toes.
When swells in their little tootsies,
Little tootsies, suffer pain,
Unto him they bring their footsies,
Footsies, to put right again;
For they say, sir, "None but he, sir,
He, sir, understands the toe."
Earls and Dukes wait every day, sir,
Every day, sir, in a row.
Doctor Farley, sir, M.D.,
Others—in the street of Harley—
Others like him there may be.
There's a moral to this story,
To this story, if you're wise:
If you'd win both wealth and glory,
Wealth and glory—Specialize.
XXXVIII.
THAT OF JEREMIAH SCOLES, MISER.
I sing of joys, and junketings,
Of holly, and of such-like things;
I sing of merry mistletoe,
And,—pardon me,—I sing also
Of Jeremiah Scoles.
I sing of Mister Scoles because
So singular a man he was,
And had so very strange a way
Of celebrating Christmas Day—
Unlike all other souls.
Myself, I am a cheerful man,
Enjoying life as best I can.
At Christmas-time I love to see
The flow of mirth and jollity
About the festive board;
I love to dance, I try to sing;
On enemies, like anything,
At Christmas-time I heap hot coals,
But not so Jeremiah Scoles—
He loves a miser's hoard.
I chanced one year, on Christmas Day,
To call upon him, just to say
That we'd be very pleased to see
Him, if he'd care to come to tea.
I found him quite alone.
He sat before a fireless grate;
The room looked bare and desolate,
And he, unkempt, in dressing-gown,
Received me with an angry frown,
And spoke in surly tone.
"Ha! what d'ye want?" said he to me
And eyed me most suspiciously.
I laughed and gave a hearty smack
Upon the grumpy fellow's back,
And cried: "Come home with me.
We'll treat you well. There's lots of fun—"
But ere I scarcely had begun
He cut me short. "Pooh! folly! stuff!
See here; I've fun—quite fun enough!"
He laughed, but mirthlessly.
Before him on the table lay
Gold, silver, coppers, in array;
Some empty bottles; stacks of bills;
Some boxes for containing pills—
And that was all. Said he:
"This gold is what I haven't spent
In presents; and the silver's meant
To show what could be wasted in—
Pah!—Christmas boxes. 'Tis a sin
I don't encourage—no, not me?
"The coppers—little boys, no doubt,
Would like 'em—they may go without;
While these long bills I should have had
From tradesmen, had I been so mad
As to have bought the things
They represent for Christmas cheer;
These bottles and pill-boxes here
Show what I will not have to take,
Because I'll have no stomach-ache
That over-eating brings.
"And thus I spend my Christmas Day,
Thinking what silly fools are they
Who spend so much in solid cash
On so much sentimental trash.
And now, good-day to you!"
He showed me out, he banged the door,
And I was—where I was before.
* * *
I really think, upon my word,
His line of reasoning's most absurd.
No doubt you think so, too?
XXXIX.
THAT OF THE HIGH-SOULED YOUTH.
A year or so ago, you know,
I had a friend, at Pimlico,
For want of better name called Joe
(This name is not his right 'un).
He was a sweet, poetic youth,
Romantic, gallant, and in sooth
Might well be called, in very truth
An "Admirable Crichton."
And oh! it grieved him sore to see
The lack,—these times,—of chivalry.
He'd now and then confide to me
His views upon the matter.
"Good, never now is done by stealth!"
He'd say, "Men ruin mind, and health
In sordid scramble after wealth;
And talk,—is idle chatter."
"That simple virtue, Modesty,
Alas! it now appears to be
A valueless commodity,
Though once men prized it highly."
He went on thus,—like anything,
Until I heard, one day last Spring,
That he intended marrying
The daughter of old Riley.
I knew the Riley girls, and thought
"Now this has turned out as it ought.
Joe is a reg'lar right good sort
To marry 'Cinderella.'"
The younger one, (thus called by me)
A sweet good girl as e'er might be
Was poor; the elder—rich was she—
Her name was Arabella.
An Aunt had left her lots of gold,
While 'Cinderella'—so I'm told,—
She left entirely in the cold
Without a single shilling.
The elder one,—though plain to see,—
Of suitors had some two, or three;
Poor Cinderella, nobody
To marry her seemed willing.
Until the noble high-souled Joe—
That Errant-knight of Pimlico—
Came forth, the world at large to show
That he at least knew better.
In spirit I before him bowed,
"To know a man like that I'm proud
And happy!" I remarked aloud,
And sent to him this letter.
"ARABELLA."
"Dear Joe;—Wealth as you say's a trap
Gold is but dross,—not worth a rap—
How very like you—dear old chap!—
To marry 'Cinderella.'"
* * *
He wrote:—"I must expostulate,
I'm not a FOOL at any rate!
Of course I've chosen as a mate
The RICH one, Arabella!"
XL.
THAT OF MR. JUSTICE DEAR'S LITTLE JOKE AND THE
UNFORTUNATE MAN WHO COULD NOT SEE IT.
Again of Mr. Justice Dear
My harmless numbers flowing,
Shall tell a story somewhat queer
About His Worship, showing,
How sensitive the legal wit.
It is. There is no doubt of it.
Before good Justice Dear one day
A man—for some small matter,
Was hailed, and, in his own sly way
(The former, not the latter)
Made,—and I thought the Court would choke,—
An unpremeditated joke.
The prosecuting Counsel roared,
The Jury giggled madly,
Only the Prisoner looked bored,
He took it rather sadly.
"Why don't you laugh?" the Usher said,
The Prisoner, he shook his head.
"I cannot see," said he, "that's flat—
A fact that's most annoying,—
What everyone is laughing at,
And seemingly enjoying."
This strange remark, it reached his ear
And irritated Justice Dear.
"When I am pleased to make a joke
That's not the way to treat it."
Thus, warningly, his Worship spoke,
"Now listen! I'll repeat it."
He did. He said it o'er and o'er.
At least a dozen times or more.
"Excuse me, sir," the Prisoner said,
"At what may you be driving?"
Good Justice Dear turned very red,
"This joke of my contriving,
If you don't see it, Sir, you ought;
If not—well—'tis contempt of Court."
The Counsel then explained it, but
Quite failed the point to show him;
The Usher muttered "Tut-tut-tut!"
The Jury whispered "Blow him!"
Then several people wrote it down.
The Prisoner still wore a frown.
"Am I supposed to laugh at that?
Why? I can't see the reason."
It was too much. His Lordship sat
Aghast. "'Tis almost treason!
That unpremeditated joke before
Has never failed to raise a roar.
"Defective in morality,
Must be that man misguided,
Who fails its brilliancy to see."
His Lordship then decided
To send the man,—despite his tears,—
To servitude, for twenty years.
XLI.
THAT OF THE LADIES OF ASCENSION ISLAND.
On the Island of Ascension
There are only ladies ten,
The remaining population
Being officers or men.
"Dear me!" I hear you saying,
"How united they must be!"
But in this you'd be mistaken,
As you'll very quickly see.
For each lady on the Island
Thinks she ought to take the lead
In social matters, and on this
They're not at all agreed.
And Mrs. Smith's told Mrs. Brown
She thinks her most absurd,
While others cut each other dead
And don't exchange a word.
This state of thing's been going on
They tell me year by year,
And the husbands have grown tired of it
As we should do I fear;
For connubial felicity
Is doomed, if all our lives
Are spent in listening to the faults
Of other people's wives.
Quite recently a steamer called
For cinnamon and spice,
And her Captain and the officers
Were asked for their advice.
They gave it promptly. It was this—
"'Twere better you agreed,
In social matters, just to let
The eldest lady lead."
They tried it. But—good gracious!
They are worse off than before,
For every lady in the place
Is firm upon that score.
Impossible it is that age
Shall be the final test,
For every one insists that she
Is younger than the rest!
XLII.
THAT OF THE ARTICULATING SKELETON.
There was a worthy Doctor once
Who unlike Mother Hubbard
Had many bones (a skeleton)
Shut up within a cupboard.
One night the worthy Doctor dreamt,
(He'd been up rather late)
His articulated skeleton
Did thus articulate:—
"Come! Doctor, come! confess that you're a fraud
A very specious humbug and a sham.
Though meek as any lamb.
Don't glare at me! I'll tell it not abroad
But merely in your ears alone applaud
The wily artifice of pill and dram.
"You know as well as I do, you don't mean,
One half the things you tell 'our patient.' No!
Why, I can clearly show,
That Mrs. Gobbles' ailments are but spleen,
('Tis quite the simplest cause that e'er was seen)
And yet what crack-jaw names you now bestow.
"Because, forsooth, the longer you can prey
Upon her pocket, that doth please you best,
So, Doctor, you protest
'The case is serious,' from day to day,
'And it must run its course,' you gravely say
With wisest head-shake and a look distressed.
"And then those pills! Absurd you know to try
To gammon me with bolluses of bread;
While Aqua P. I've said,
Often, is good (if nothing else be nigh)
To drink when thirsty and our throats are dry,
But not for medicine—though coloured red.
"So, Doctor, when we're by ourselves alone,
Don't try to put on 'side' with me, good lack,
For I can surely track
Full many a 'fatal case' you'd fain disown.
And I can tell aright why you should groan
When harmless ducks in passing cry 'Quack! Quack!'
* * *
The Doctor woke. "Dear me!" said he,
"This skeleton's too wise
For me." He therefore packed it up,
And sent it off to Guy's.
XLIII.
THAT OF YE LOVE-PHILTRE: AN OLD-ENGLISH LEGEND.
Sir Peter de Wynkin
He loved a fair mayde,
And he wooed ye fair mayde
For hys bride.
But ye ladye cried "no,"
With a toss of her head,
And Sir Wynkin
Disconsolate sighed.
"Now out! and alas!
And alack-a-day me!"
He sang him
In sorrowful tones,
"She loveth me not
Yet, beshrew me!" said he,
"There's a wizard I wot of
Called—Jones."
Was a wizard of note,
And he dwelt in a cave
Hard at hand.
Love-philtres and potions
He sold for a groat,
To ye rich and ye poor
Of ye land.
Sir Wynkin, he sought
This same wizard straightway,
And he told him hys
Dolorous plight.
The wizard cried, "Ha!
If you'll do as I say,
Thys small matter
Can soon be set right."
"Thys potion—a love-philtre
Made extra strong—
To ye ladye, by you,
Must be given."
"Oddzooks!" quoth Sir Wynkin.
"Ye ladye ere long
Shall receive it,
Or e'er I be shriven."
Where ye fair ladye slept,
But Sir Wynkin climbed up
From ye basement.
By means of ye ivy
He painfully crept,
And ye potion placed
Outside the casement.
"Ere the morrow is past.
Curiosity'll prompt her
To drink it.
Ye magic will act,
And she'll love me at last.
Ah me! 'Tis sweet joy
E'en to think it."
But alack! and alas!
Ye endyng was sad,
Ye love-philtre caused
Quite a commotion.
For—a toothless old grand-dame
Ye fair ladye had,
And she found, and she drank
Ye love potion!!
With Sir Wynkin 'tis said,
And declared that ye Knight
Had betrayed her.
So, distraught, from ye country
Sir Wynkin he fled,
And he died at ye wars—
A Crusader.
XLIV.
THAT OF THE BARGAIN SALE.
I sing of Mrs. Tomkins-Smythe,
And Mrs. Gibson-Brown;
Two ladies resident within
A square, near Camden Town.
Good neighbours they had been, and friends,
For twenty years, or more;
The Tomkins-Smythes they lived at "6,"
The Gibson-Browns at "4."
'Twas in that season of the year
When drapers' bargain sales
Do fascinate the female mind,
And vex the married males.
An illustrated catalogue
Arrived at "Number 4,"
Which Mrs. Gibson-Brown took in
To show her friend next door.
"My dear!" she cried in eager tones,
"Such bargains! Gracious me!
Here's this reduced from two-and-six
To one eleven-three!
"And those which you remember, dear,
We thought so very nice,
They're selling off at really an
Alarming sacrifice!"
"Those remnants—" Mrs. Tomkins-Smythe
Remained to hear no more;
She jabbed her bonnet on with pins,
And hurried to the door.
A tram, a 'bus, the tupp'ny tube,
And they were quickly there;
And joining in the buzzing crowd
Of other ladies fair.
They pulled at this, they tugged at that,
They turned and tumbled those;
And pushed, and crowded with the best,
And trod on people's toes.
They glared at other buyers, and
Forestalled them—when they could;
And behaved, indeed, exactly,
As at sales all ladies should.
Till with heavy parcels laden,
Breathless, but with keen delight,
They beheld the remnant counter
("Second turning to the right.")
And (alas! how small a matter
May entirely change life's view)
Both in the self-same instant
Saw a remnant—Navy blue.
They each reached out to take it.
"'Tis mine!" they both did cry.
"I saw it first, my dearest love."
"No, darling, it was I."
"My remnant, and I'll buy it!"
"Indeed? I think you won't!"
"Pooh! madame, I will have it!"
"I'll see, ma'am, that you don't!"
And thus, and thus—oh, woesome sight—
They quarrelled, nor would stop
Until the shopwalker he came
And turned them from the shop.
* * *
They never made the quarrel up,
And now, with icy stare,
They pass each other in the street
With noses in the air.
XLV.
THAT OF A DECEASED FLY.
(A Ballade.)
A little busy buzzy fly
Before my window oft would go,
I daily saw him sailing by
And thought that I would like to know
More of that little fly, and oh!
I raised my hat, and bowed, and said,
"How do!" The fly replied, "So, so!"
(Alas! that little fly is dead.)
We grew quite friendly, he and I,
He'd come when called—I called him Joe.—
He was a most amusing fly.
At evening, when the sun was low,
Or, by the firelight's ruddy glow
He'd hopscotch on my buttered bread
Or o'er my jam, with nimble toe.
(Alas! that little fly is dead.)
I saved him once, when none was by;
From out the milk jug's fatal flow
I fished him out, and let him dry.
His gratitude he tried to show
In many ways I know, I know;
But—when upon my bald, bald head
He gamboled, could I stand it? No!
Alas! that little fly is dead!
