THE LAST TURNPIKE.
["The last of the old turnpike trusts is to terminate on the 1st of November."—Daily News.]
Remember, remember the first of November!—
The old turnpike system grew old, ripe, and rotten;
But man loves to dream by the Past's waning ember,
And turnpikes, though troublesome, won't be forgotten.
Like old inns and highwaymen, stocks and stage-coaches,
The white turnpike bars have their memories fragrant;
But on quaint antiquities Progress encroaches.
The knight of the road, and the picturesque vagrant,
The "Highflyer" coach and the postchaise have vanished;
And now the old turnpike is destined to follow.
When from his snug box the last toll-taker's banished,
One feels the Romance of the Road will sound hollow.
The toll was a nuisance, the toll-keeper grumpy,
He turned out to pocket his coppers and tanners
With curt elocution which made one feel jumpy;
There wasn't much charm in his dress or his manners.
His "stand and deliver" made timid folk quiver,
And when not despotic he mostly looked drowsy;
He'd keep you a-waiting till all of a shiver,
Then yawn on you, looking forbidding and frowsy.
And yet his snug box and white bars had attractions.
The gleam from his fire, the red rose o'er his portal,
Would make you forgive his rough ways and exactions,
And Turpin and Weller have made him immortal.
His locks, bolts, and bars were extremely obstructive,
But then his white apron and mannerless greeting—
In retrospect—take on a something seductive.
Sure oft on our highways his spook, slowly fleeting,
With glimmering shirt-sleeves and coin-chinking pocket,
Will haunt the lone traveller; make him remember
The jolly old days of the fast-rattling "Rocket,"
And heave one sad sigh for this fatal November.
"Approbation from Sir Hubert Stanley is praise indeed!"—Sir Arthur was highly pleased with the Leeds Festival chorus-folk. "I praise you," he said to them, "from the bottom of my heart." Praise from "the top of a heart" would be nothing, but to pump it up, from the depths, expresses the profundity of admiration. Then added Sir Arthur, "The greatest privilege of my life is"—now just pause; think what could possibly be "the greatest privilege" of Sir Arthur Sullivan's life? The privilege of musical genius? No. Give it up? Yes. Then read on. "The greatest privilege of my life is that His Royal Highness will, at my request, tell you what he thinks of the chorus." O immortal Jabberwock!
"O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!
He chortled in his joy."
Whereupon H. R. H. observed, most discreetly, "It is not for me to make criticisms; that I leave to your amiable conductor." Bee-ew-tiful!! This chorus will "get a bit above itself." Dangerous precedent, O amiable conductor!
