JUSTICE FOR BACHELORS.
"Dear Mr. Punch,
"I am a bachelor, and my friends, I believe, allow that, in the main, I am a tolerably good-natured fellow—but just look here! I was invited a few days ago to spend a week at a country house, and here I am; but I must confess that I was a little put out when taken to the very top of it, and told that this was my bedroom. I have since been led to suppose that unmarried men must expect to sleep in the worst rooms there are; for see—this is the bedroom of a married couple, friends of mine. Now—confound it! I say the comfort is monstrously and unfairly disproportioned. The ladies—bless them!—ought, of course, to be made as cosy as possible; no man could object to their having their nice little bit of fire, and their dear little slippers placed before it, with their couches, and their easy chairs, &c.—of course not—but that is no reason why we single men should be treated like so many Shetland ponies. There is no fireplace in my room, and the only ventilation is through a broken window. As far as the shooting, the riding, the eating and drinking go, I have nothing whatever to complain of. But I want to know why—why this mature female always answers my bell, and that great brute Snawkins (whose mind, by-the-by, is not half so well regulated as mine)—merely because he is a married man—has his hot water brought by this little maid! I don't understand it. You may print this, if you like; only send me a few copies of Punch, when it appears, that's a good fellow, and I will carelessly leave them about, in the hope that Mrs. Haycock may see them; and by Jove! if the hint is not taken, and my bedroom changed—or, at least, made more comfortable—I'll—yes—(there's an uncommonly nice girl stopping here) I'll be hanged if I don't think very seriously of getting married myself.
"Believe me, my dear Punch,
"Yours faithfully,
"Charles Singleboy."
[ DRAMAS FOR EVERY-DAY LIFE.]
The following drama is upon a subject that will come home to the heart and tongue, the lungs and the lips, the epiglottis and the affections, of every Englishman. There is not a theme in the whole range of every-day life, that so frequently furnishes the matter of conversation, and there can be none, consequently, so universal in its interest, as the one which forms the subject of the drama we are about to present to our readers. In every circle, at every hour of every day, the first point started by every one meeting with another, and taken up by that other with the keenest relish, is—The Weather. The title may not appear at first sight a promising one, for the purposes of the dramatist; but if he can succeed in presenting to his countrymen a type of a drama for every-day life, divested of those common-places which long habit and an apparent exhaustion of the theme may have thrown about it, he will be content to hang up his harp on the first hat-peg of "Tara's," or any one else's "hall," and repose, as well as such a substitute for a mattress will allow him, upon his already-acquired laurels. But without further prologue, we will "ring up," and let the curtain rise for the drama of
THE WEATHER.
| Dramatis Personæ. | |
|---|---|
| Mr. Muffle | An old friend of the late husband of Mrs. Yawnley. |
| Mrs. Muffle | Wife of Mr. Muffle. |
| Mrs. Shivers | A casual acquaintance of Mrs. Yawnley,and knowing incidentally a little of the Muffles. |
| Mrs. Yawnley | A widow, whose late husband was a friend of Mr. Muffle. |
| Servant to Mrs. Yawnley. | |
The Scene passes in the drawing-room of Mrs. Yawnley. The Stage represents a handsome drawing-room, elegantly furnished. There is a door at the back opening on to a hall in which is hung a weather-glass.
Mrs. Yawnley (in a morning dress) discovered seated in conversation with Mrs. Shivers, who wears her shawl and bonnet.
Mrs. Y. It is indeed! the winter, as you say,
Has now set in with great severity.
Mrs. S. Not that I think we've reason to complain.
This is December, we should recollect.
Mrs. Y. We should indeed—a very true remark:
And one that never struck me till you made it.
Enter Servant, announcing Mr. and Mrs. Muffle.
Mrs. Y. (rising.) Dear Mrs. Muffle, this is very kind,
To come to see me on a day like this.
Which I and Mrs. Shivers (whom you know)
Were just remarking was extremely cold.
Mr. M. Cold—do you think!
Mrs. Y. Yes—pray come near the fire.
Mrs. M. Oh! Thank you—no—I'd really rather not.
I'm very warm with walking.
[Sits at a distance.
Mrs. S. Probably.
But walking somehow never makes me warm.
[An awkward pause, during which Mr. Muffle puts his fingers between the bars of a parrot's cage, as if playing with the bird, receives a savage snap, but says nothing, as the affair is not remarked by any body.]
Mrs. Y. What think you, Mister Muffle, will it rain?
You gentlemen can always judge so well.
Mr. M. (Walking to the window, partly to conceal the pain of his finger.) Why, that depends a good deal on the wind.
Mrs. S. They say that when the smoke is beaten down,
Rain may be looked for.
Mrs. M. I have often heard
That if the birds fly very near the ground,
Wet is in store. Look at that sparrow now,
He's fairly on the ground, so it must rain.
Mrs. Y. But now he's off again, and so it won't,
Those adages, I think, are often wrong.
Mr. M. One rule I've always found infallible.
Mrs. S. Pray tell us what it is.
Mrs. Y. Do—I entreat.
It would be so convenient to know.
Some certain rule by which to guide one's self.
My glass deceives me often.
Mrs. M. (in a mental aside.) Rather say
Your glass tells often some unpleasant truths.
Mr. M. My weather-glass, dear madam, is my corn.
Mrs. M. Why, really, Mister M., you're quite absurd;
Have we the means of guidance such as that?
You're positively rude.
Mrs. Y. (laughing.) Oh, not at all;
He's trod upon no tender place of mine.
Mrs. S. I've heard some story of the tails of cows
'Tis said that when to the wind's quarter turn'd,
They augur rain. Now tell me, Mr. Muffle,
Do you believe in that?
Mr. M. I'd trust a cow's,
As well as any other idle tail.
Mrs. Y. That's saying very little. Tell me, now,
(For your opinion, really, I respect,)
Are mackerel-looking clouds a sign of wet?
Mr. M. I think it probable that mackerel clouds
Betoken wet, just as a mackerel's self
Puts us in mind of water.
Mrs. S. Are you joking
Or speaking as a scientific man?
Mrs. Y. You're such a wag, there's never any knowing
When you are serious, or half in jest.
Dear Mrs. Muffle, you that know him best,
Shall we believe him?
Mrs. M. Oh, I can say nothing,
[All laugh for some minutes, on and off, at the possibly intended wit of Mr. Muffle; and the tittering having died off gradually, there is a pause.]
Mrs. M. (to Mrs. Y.) Have you been out much lately?
Mrs. Y. No, indeed,
The dampness in the air prevented me.
Mrs. S. 'Tis rather drier now.
Mrs. Y. I think it is.
I hope I shall be getting out next week,
If I can find a clear and frosty day.
Mr. M. I think 'tis very probable you will.
Mrs. Y. I'm quite delighted to have heard you say so;
But are you quizzing us. You're such a quiz!
Mr. M. (with serious earnestness.) Believe me, Mrs. Yawnley, when I say
I've far too much regard—too much esteem—
For one I've known as long as I've known you,
To say a word intending to mislead;
In friendship's solemn earnestness I said,
And say again, pledging my honor on it,
'Tis my belief we may, ere very long,
Some clear and frosty days anticipate.
Mrs. Y. I know your kindness, and I feel it much;
You were my poor dear husband's early friend.
[Taking out her handkerchief. Mrs. S. goes toward the window to avoid being involved in the scene.]
I feel that though with cheerful badinage
You now and then amuse a passing hour,
When with a serious appeal addressed,
You never make a frivolous reply.
Mrs. M. (rising, and kissing Mrs. Y.) You do him justice, but we must be going.
Mr. M. (giving his hand to Mrs. Y.) Good morning, Mrs. Yawnley.
Mrs. Y. Won't you wait,
And take some luncheon?
Mr. M. Thank you; no, indeed;
We must be getting home, I fear 'twill rain.
Mrs. S. I think you go my way—I'm in a fly,
And shall be very glad to set you down.
Mrs. M. Oh, thank you; that's delightful.
Mrs. S. (to Mrs. Y.) So, I'll say
Good-by at once.
Mrs. Y. Well, if you will not stay.
[Mr. and Mrs. Muffle, and Mrs. Shivers, exeunt by the door. Mrs. Yawnley goes to the bell. Mr. Muffle taps on the weather-glass; the bell rings; and the glass, which is going down, falls considerably at the same moment as the curtain.]
A JUVENILE PARTY.
First Juvenile.—"That's a pretty girl talking to young Algernon Binks."
Second Juvenile.—"Hm—Tol-lol! You should have seen her some seasons ago."