I'll have an excursion, a bit of desertion, September diversion, and
where shall I go? If pleasure you mean, sir, at Windsor's the Queen,
sir, I'd have you go in, sir, and see all the show.—At once, gay of
heart, then for Windsor I start, and at Paddington see me _in train_ to
depart; and as steam's all the go, as you very well know, if we go
_slow_ to Windsor, we'll go _quick_ to _Slough_.—The engine's a great
'un (at desperate rate on, 'twill speed us nor heed us, while we laugh
and scoff), all happy go merry, like gunpowder, werry, as soon _as it's
fired_ the train _will go off_!—How rapid our pace is! I swear all the
places, like horses at races, do seem to fly by! Oh! how precious quick
now, and see if you're sick now, there's _Ealing_ to cure you, so
physic's my eye! See old Mr. Zitters, who dotes upon bitters, and, in
the West Indies, put _wormwood_ in shrubs: behold him alight now, to get
appetite now (still bitters for ever!) at famed _Wormwood Scrubs_.—
Here's Hanwell, where Smilem now weeps in th' Asylum; through
_moonshine_ and _credit_ his trade cut its stick; woe followed his
laughter, his wits they went after; a lunatic victim to _Luna_ and
_tick_!—Well now we're at Slough, and no farther need go, our
_raillery's_ over, the train has cried "_wo!_"—But the "bus," out and
in, stows away thick and thin; dirt and clean, fat and lean, there for
Windsor they pack; the sorry nags speed, very sorry indeed, with a whip
at the flank and a load at the back.—Now all in a bustle, we rush to the
Castle, and here comes the Queen ever smiling and gay, Hurrah! and God
save her! she could not look braver; but those jockies in livery, pray
_who are they?_—Oh! keep back your sneers, and hold in your jeers,
they're her Majesty's ministers, princes, and peers. With their dingy
blue jackets, and collars of red, their old Windsor uniforms, looking so
dead; they might well pass for "_Uniform Postmen_" instead!—Now farewell
and adieu to the Queen's retinue: for onward we strode, in the Royal
abode, where fine ancient paintings, paraded to view, are shown by an
ignorant thick-headed dunce, whose brogue murders Masters and English at
once.—"Look, here is, an' plase ye, _Paul-very-unaisy_, and bad luck if
there an't a rale _Remembrant_:" so if _Dan_ did but follow the old
fellow's tail, he'd be quite pleased to hear him call Raphael
"_Rapale!_"—But it's going to rain, and although, to a man, we would
have the Queen's reign be as long as it can; yet as soaking's "no go,"
we must rush back to Slough, where panting and gasping for breath we are
dinn'd, sir—with "What is the matter? you're quite out of _Wind-sir_."
[Illustration:
SEPTEMBER—Over-boarded and Under-lodged.
]