THE "ONE-HORSE" HOUSEHOLDER.
(A Solemn Social Ditty.)
In a region where freshly-built suburbs lie ending
'Mid plots of the glum market-gardener's ground,—
Its bare, tenantless frontages gloomily blending
With grime and neglect that are rampant all round,
Runs the street, so forlorn it could not be forlorner,
Where, looking straight down a "no thoroughfare" road,
With the blaze of a new public-house at the corner,
The sad "One-horse" Householder finds his abode!
'Tis a wilderness wild of dread dilapidations,
Where one feeble gas-light illumines the street,
While right over the way fourteen kitchen foundations
Of houses unfinished the aching eye greet!
How he first chanced to find it his friends often wonder.
No omnibus runs within miles of his door,—
Nor a train, be it either above-ground or under,
Wakes life with its thrice welcome whistle and roar.
If you call at that house, you'll be knocking and ringing,
Till, with forcible language, you're leaving the place,
When a slavey, who comes up the hall gaily singing,
Flings open the door, with a smut on her face.
You ask "if they're in," and she looks you all over,—
It's clear she's quite new to an afternoon call,—
P'raps takes you for Turpin, Bill Sikes, the Red Rover;
But she says that she'll "see," and leaves you in the hall.
You are ushered upstairs, which a Dutch carpet graces,
To a drawing-room, curtained at threepence a yard,
Where Japanese gimcracks appear in odd places,
Though Aspinall clearly has proved their trump card;
For here it envelopes a plain kitchen-table,
There a weak wicker lounge which invites not repose;
And at length you are seated, as well as you're able,
On a folding arm-chair that half threatens to close.
But they offer you tea, made with unboiling water,
A syrupy Souchong at tenpence a pound,
Which a simpering, woebegone, elderly daughter,
With stale bread rancid buttered, is handing around.
And you think you'll be off: as your talk halts and flounders,
For you feel most distinctly, they're not in your line,
And you say to yourself, "Yes, these Johnsons are bounders,"
But before you can go, you have promised to dine!
That same dinner will take you some seasons forgetting!
The claret was sour, the "tinned" oysters, Blue Point;
And moreover 'tis really a little upsetting,
For the cook to come up very drunk with the joint!
And when to crown this you are asked to expel her,
And find a Policeman,—that is, if you could.
It may soothe you to hear yourself called "a good feller,"
But can you admit that the dinner was good?
And so when you meet Johnson going up to the City,
It somehow to-day does not strike you as odd,
That with feelings of scorn not unmingled with pity,
You hurry on fast with a stiff little nod.
Be his craze "speculation," "a crush," "a small dinner,"
A christening, marriage, a death or a birth,—
There's a limpness of purpose that shows, though no sinner.
Why the dim "One-horse" Householder cumbers the earth!
