No. I.—"MY HOUSEMAID!"
Who, as our Dresden's wreck we scanned,
Protested, with assurance bland,
"It come to pieces in my 'and"?
My Housemaid.
Who "tidies" things each Monday morn,
And hides—until, with search outworn,
I wish I never had been born?
My Housemaid.
Who "turns" my study "out" that day,
And then contrives to pitch away
As "rubbish" (which it is) my Play?
My Housemaid.
Who guards within her jealous care,
Mending or marking, till I swear,
The underclothes I long to wear?
My Housemaid.
Who cultivates a habit most
Perverse, of running to "The Post"
To meet her brothers (such a host!)?
My Housemaid.
Who, if she spends her "Sundays out"
At Chapel, as she does, no doubt,
Must be protractedly devout?
My Housemaid.
Who takes my novels down (it must
Be, as she vows, of course, "to dust"),
And thumbs them, much to my disgust?
My Housemaid.
Who "can't abide" a play or ball,
But dearly loves a Funeral,
Or Exeter's reproachless Hall?
My Housemaid.
Who late returning thence, in fits
Of what she terms "Histories," sits,—
And this day month my service quits?
My Housemaid.
QUITE CLEAR.—"Aha! mon ami," exclaimed our friend JULES, during the recent murky weather in Town, "you ask me the difference between our Paris and your London. Tenez, I will tell you. Paris is always très gai, veritablement gai; but London is toujours faux gai—you see it is always fo-gay." And he meant "fog-gy." Well, he wasn't far wrong, just now.
