The poor MARKISS was so horryfied at his brillyant sucksess, that
CHARLES's sanguinery corpse aunted his bed-side, and he died within
a munth, a leetle munth, as _Amlet_ says, of the dredful ewent, and
CHARLES married his Widder. But, orful to relate, within a werry short
time CHARLES was a sorrowin Widderer, with a nincum of sum £10,000 a
year; and having purchased a Itallien titel for a hundred and fifty
pound, it is said as he intends shortly to return to hold Hingland;
and as the lovely Countess of BELGRAVIER is fortnetly becum a Widder,
and a yung one, it is thought quite posserbel, by them as is behind
the seens, like myself, for instance, that before many more munce is
past and gone, there will be one lovely Widder and one andsum Widderer
less than there is now; and we is all on us ankshushly looking forred
to the day wen the gallant Count der WENNIS shall lead his lovely
Bride to the halter of St. George's, Hannower Squeer, thus proving the
truth of the Poet's fabel,--
"The rank is but the guinny's stamp,
The Footman's the man for a' that."
* * * * *
WHERE ARE OUR DAIRYMAIDS?
A SONG OF VANISHED SUMMER.
["What has become of our Dairymaids?"--_Newspaper Question._]
AIR--"_THE DUTCHMAN'S LITTLE DOG_."
O where and O where is our Dairymaid gone?
O where, O where can she be?
With her skirts cut short and her hair cut long,
O where, and O where is she?
Well, Summer is gone, and so is the Sun,
And farming is nought but a bilk.
When our Butter is Dutch, and our Cheese is Yank,
Why, why should they leave us our Milk?
Our brave Queen BESS, as the Laureate says,[1]
Might wish that a milkmaid were she;
Whilst MAUDLIN in WALTON's bucolical days
Could troll forth her ballad with glee.
But, alas! for the days of the stool and the churn,
And the milking-pails brass-bound and bright!
There is much to do and but little to earn
In the Dairy, once IZAAK's delight.
Now Companies deal with the lacteal yield,
And churns clank o' night at Vauxhall,
Who dreams with delight of the buttercup'd field,
Or Dun Suke in her sweet-smelling stall?
Milking the Cow, and churning the milk
Made work for the maids long ago,
But possible Dairymaids now dress in silk,
_That's_ where our Dairymaids go.
Ah! DOLLY becomes a mechanical drudge,
And SALLY--a something much worse.
Through cowslip-pied meadows to merrily trudge
Won't fill a maid's heart, or her purse.
The meadow at eve and the dairy at morn,
And a song--from KIT MARLOW--between,
Would fire a fine-dressed modern MAUDLIN with scorn,
And move modish MOLLY to spleen.
The Dairymaid's true "golden age" is long fled
With Summer, and pippins and cream;
Like little _Bo-Peep_ and _Boy-Blue_, it is dead,
Save as parts of a pastoral dream.
O where and O where is our Dairymaid gone?
O where, and O where can she be?
Well, they make cockney shop-girls of PHILLIS and JOAN,
And I guess that they make such with _she_!
[Footnote 1:
"I would I were a milkmaid
To sing, love, marry, churn, brew, bake and die."
TENNYSON's _Queen Mary_.]
* * * * *
A MATTER OF CORSET.--At Sydenham, Ontario (it is stated), the Corset
has been declared to be "incompatible with Christianity!" If some of
our fashionable dames uttered their innermost feelings, they would
doubtless reply, "So much the worse for--Christianity." It is so
obvious that many modish Mammas care much more for their daughters'
bodices than their souls.
* * * * *
[Illustration: MR. PUNCH ON TOUR. HE ARRIVES AT KINGSTOWN BY THE IRISH
MAIL.]
* * * * *
THE GUZZLING CURE.
[Sir DYCE DUCKWORTH, in a letter written to a Vegetarian
Correspondent, says, "I believe in the value of animal food
and alcoholic drinks for the best interests of man. The abuse
or misuse of either is another matter."]
[Illustration]
O plump Head-waiter, I have read
What worthy DUCKWORTH writes!
And that is why I've swiftly sped
To where your door invites.
I kept my indigestion down
Of old, by sheer starvation;
But now no longer shall I frown
On food assimilation.
I pledge him in your oldest port,
_This_ medical adviser,
For vainly elsewhere might be sought
A cheerier or a wiser,
He bids me speedily return
To ordinary diet--
A sage prescription!--and I burn
To chance results, and try it!
I've lived on air; on food for Lent;
On what some Doctor calls
"Nitrogenous environment"--
A fare that quickly palls.
I'll eat the chops I once did eat;
All care and thought I banish;
And with this unexpected treat
My old dyspeptics vanish.
What though they warn me that at first--
It may be merely fancy--
The stomach's sure to try its worst
In base recalcitrancy?
When half-starved gastric juice is set
To cope with dainty dishes,
The outcome--one may safely bet--
Won't be just what one wishes.
This earth is rich in chemists' shops,
With doctors it abounds,
Who, if I feel the change from slops,
Will take me on their rounds.
So, scorning indigestive ache,
I count each anxious minute;
Oh, waiter, hurry up that steak!
My happiness is in it.
* * * * *
ANNALS OF A WATERING-PLACE
THAT "HAS SEEN ITS DAY."
I do not know when Torsington-on-Sea's day precisely was, or, whether
indeed its day has yet dawned, but I was sent there by my medical
adviser as being _the very place_ for me, it being "delightfully
quiet", nine miles from a railway station, which apparently means
in plain English twenty-four hours behind the rest of this habitable
globe, and generally stranded in the race for every conceivable
comfort or necessity with which an age of Co-operative Stores
and Electric Lighting has made one comfortably--perhaps too
comfortably--familiar. Judging, however, from the fact that
Torsington-on-Sea consists mainly of a pretentious architectural
effort consisting of six-and-thirty palatial sea-side residences,
twenty-four of which are let in sets of furnished apartments to highly
respectable families, and twelve of which appear, from want of funds,
to have stopped short in their infancy many years ago at the basement,
showing a weed-covered foundation of what might, had the over-sanguine
capitalist not overshot the initial mark, have proved as fine a
sea-side terrace on the South East Coast as the weary cockney eye
could well hope to light upon, it would be including the fact that
there is but one policeman to protect the lives and properties of the
inhabitants and strangers of Torsington-on-Sea, by day and by night,
and a town band (with a uniform) of five, of which two-fifths are, I
was going to say "armed" with cymbals, triangle and with big and side
drums, it would be more reasonable to suppose that Torsington-on-Sea
had seen its day, and that what glories it ever had may be regarded as
having departed with the vanished years.
[Illustration]
Beyond the stock recreation afforded by the militarily-apparelled
Town Band of five, whose _répertoire_ appears to be confined to a
sad and serious opening march, a rather lugubrious galop, and a
couple of valses and a quick-step Polka, which evidently owe their
origin to the genius of the Conductor, the entertainment offered by
Torsington-on-Sea must be further sought for from a donkey-chair, the
donkey attached to which has many a long year ago lost what it ever
possessed in the shape of "spirit," a cast-off Nigger Minstrel, with a
concertina that is somewhat out of order, and a lovely "public-house"
tenor, who is heard only after dark, but with a voice so sweet and
true in tone, that one wonders how it is that instead of thrilling
the High Street of Torsington-on-Sea for possibly the few halfpence
he picks up in that rather unappreciative thoroughfare, he is
not simultaneously rushed at and eagerly caught up by the leading
_impressarios_ of all the continental opera-houses in Europe!
Then there is the daily arrival of the "coach," for such is the faded
yellow omnibus styled, that meets the London train from Boxminster,
which pulls up with a flourish at the "Three Golden Cups." There is
seldom anything brought by this noteworthy conveyance, unless it be
a package or parcel for Mr. DUNSTABLE, the one highly respectable
tradesman in the town. DUNSTABLE's is _the_ emporium _par excellence_
where anything, from a patent drug down to the latest new novel, can
be ordered down from Town. There is a tradition that old GEORGE THE
THIRD, when passing through Torsington in the year 1793, stopped at
DUNSTABLE's for some boot-laces, and, patting the grandfather of the
present proprietor on the head, said, "What! what! none in stock! Then
I think we must have some of these pretty curls instead." Anyhow, that
is given as the reason for the style and title of "Dunstable's _Royal_
Library and Reading Room," which it has enjoyed without dispute from
the commencement of the present century to the present day.
I came here, as I said, by the advice of my medical adviser, to "pick
up." How far Torsington-on-Sea has helped me to do this, I must deal
with subsequently.
* * * * *
IGNORANT BLISS.
[Illustration]
At noon through the open window
Comes the scent of the new-mown hay.
I look out. In the meadow yonder
Are the little lambs at play.
They are all extremely foolish,
Yet I haven't the heart to hint
That over the boundary wall there grows
A beautiful bed of mint.
For a little lamb
Will run to its mam.
And will say "O! dam,"
At a hint, however well intentioned,
When the awful name of mint is mentioned.
At the close of day the burglar comes
For to ply his gentle trade.
I fondly gaze on his jemmy, and
Grow timid and quite afraid.
I wouldn't for kingdoms have him know
That my neighbours of titled rank
Went abroad on a sudden last night and left
Their jewels at COUTTS's Bank.
For a burglar bold
Grows harsh and cold
When he finds he's sold,
And his burglar's bosom heaves at knowing
That the sell of a swag isn't worth the stowing.
I'm a poet--you may not know it,
But I am and hard up for "tin,"
So I've written these clever verses
And I hope they'll get put in.
Yet Life is an awful lottery
With a gruesome lot of blanks,
And I wish the Editor hadn't slips
That are printed "Declined with Thanks."
For it's rather hard
On a starving bard
When his last trump card
Is played, and he wishes himself bisected
When his Muse's lays come back--rejected!
* * * * *
STORICULES.
III.--THE DEAR OLD LADY.
There were three of them in the railway-carriage. One was a
Stockbroker; one was a Curate; one was an Old Lady. They had been
strangers to each other when they started; but it was near the end of
the journey, and they were chatting pleasantly together now. One could
see that the little Old Lady was from the country; she was exquisitely
neat and simple in appearance; there was an air of primness about her
which one rarely sees in a city product. She carried a big bunch of
hedgerow flowers. She seemed to be a little nervous about travelling,
and still more nervous about encountering the noise and confusion of
the great city. She had asked the Stockbroker and Curate a good many
questions about the sights that she ought to see, and how much she
ought to pay the cabman, and which were the best shops. "Not but what
TOM will look after me," she explained; "Tom's a very good son to me,
and he'll be waiting on the platform for me. And such a boy as he
was too when he was younger! Fruit! There wasn't anything that boy
wouldn't do to get it--any kind of mischief." She grew garrulous on
the subject of Tom's infancy. The two men answered her questions,
and listened amusedly to her chatter. Occasionally they interchanged
smiles. Presently the train got near to the station just before the
terminus. The Curate warned the Old Lady that the tickets would be
collected there.
[Illustration]
"Thank you, Sir," she said, "for telling me. Then I must be getting
my ticket ready. I've got it quite safely. Such a lot of money it did
seem to pay for a ride to London! But TOM _would_ have me come. He
never forgets his old Mother." She undid her reticule and took out her
purse; she undid the purse and took out a folded paper; she unfolded
the paper and took out the ticket. Then she put the paper back in
the purse, and the purse back in the reticule. She held the ticket
gingerly between two fingers of her cotton-gloved hand, as if it were
a delicate fruit, and she were afraid of rubbing the bloom off it.
"What a refreshing contrast to our city ways!" thought the
Stockbroker.
"_How_ characteristic!" thought the Curate.
"My word! there's one of my hair-pins coming out," said the Old Lady,
suddenly. The hand which held the ticket flew to the back of her head,
to put the hair-pin right.
And then, all at once, the look of animation died out of the Old
Lady's face. She seemed utterly aghast and horror-stricken. She gasped
out an unintelligible interjection.
"What's the matter, Ma'am?" asked the Stockbroker.
"My ticket's gone! I was putting that hair-pin right, and the ticket
slipped out of my fingers, and dropped down the back of my neck
between my clothes and--and myself. What _shall_ I do when that
gentleman comes for the tickets?"
The Curate blushed violently. In his boyhood's days he had put
halfpennies down the back of his neck and jumped up and down until
they percolated out in the region of his boots. He had only just
checked himself in the act of advising the Old Lady to get up and
jump.
The Stockbroker was more practical, and soon consoled her. He was a
season-ticket-holder, and knew the collector. He would explain it to
the man. "You'll be able to get the ticket again, you see, when you--I
mean, later on." The British love of euphemism had asserted itself.
"And then you can send it to the collector by post. You had better
write down your name and address to give him. I'll guarantee to the
collector that it will be all right."
The Old Lady overwhelmed him with thanks. Slowly and laboriously she
wrote the name and address on the piece of paper in which the ticket
was folded. All happened just as the Stockbroker had foretold. The
Ticket-collector was very well satisfied and very much amused.
TOM was waiting for her at the terminus, and took charge of her at
once.
"Ah!" said the Stockbroker to the Curate, when she had gone, "that's
my notion of a dear Old Lady."
"Everything about her was _so_ characteristic," answered the Curate,
admiringly.
Neither the Curate nor the Stockbroker had the advantage of hearing
what the dear Old Lady said to Tom that afternoon.
"It came off just beautifully, my boy. Not that I blame _them_, mind
you,--how were they to know that it was a ticket which I didn't give
up last year, and that I hadn't even taken a ticket at all to-day? No,
I don't blame them. As for the address, I put the same address that
was on the label of the Curate's bag, only I altered The Rev. CHARLES
MARLINGHURST to Mrs. MARLINGHURST. And the Stockbroker guaranteed that
I should send either the ticket or the money. So he'll have to pay up!
Oh, my word! My gracious word, what a treat!"
The dear Old Lady chuckled contentedly.
Tom also chuckled.
The Stockbroker subsequently relinquished to a great extent his habit
of remarking upon his own marvellous intuition, enabling him to
read character at sight; the Curate preached a capital sermon on the
deceptiveness of man, and when he said man he meant woman.
* * * * *
TO A TOO-ENGAGING MAIDEN.
[Illustration]
I think you should know I've been put out of humour
By something I hear very nearly each day.
In a small town like ours, as you know, every rumour
Gets about in a truly remarkable way.
It is too much to hope for that women won't prattle,
But I candidly tell you, I do feel enraged
When I find that a part of their stock tittle-tattle
Is that we--how I laugh at the thought!--are engaged.
Though you don't even claim to be reckoned as pretty,
You are not, I admit it, aggressively plain.
You dress pretty well, and your talk, if not witty,
As a rule doesn't give me much positive pain.
You will one day be rich, for your prospects are "healthy,"
Yet as Beauty and Riches do not make up Life,
Why, were you as lovely as Venus, as wealthy
As Croesus I wouldn't have _you_ for my wife.
Are you free altogether from blame in the matter--
I'm resolved to be frank, so it's useless to frown--
Have you not had a share in the mischievous chatter
Which makes our "engagement" the talk of the town?
When some eager, impertinent person hereafter
Shall inquire of its truth, and shall ask, "Is it so?"
Instead of implying assent by your laughter,
Would you kindly oblige me by answering, "No"?
I recognise freely your marvellous kindness
In allowing your name to be linked with my own.
Maybe it is only incurable blindness
To your charms that compels me to let them alone.
But if with reports I am still to be harried,
I've thoroughly made up my mind what to do;
Just to settle it all, I shall shortly be married,
I shall shortly be married, but not--_not_ to you.
* * * * *
"WHO BREAKS PAYS."--"In some large restaurants," says the _Daily
Chronicle_, "the girls engaged have to pay for the breakages which
occur in the course of carrying on a business in which they are not
partners." If the maxim at the head of this paragraph were strictly
and impartially enforced, such exacting employers would have to
pay pretty smartly for certain "breakages" which occur in the
carrying on of a business in which they consider _they_ have no
concern--breakages, to wit, of the girls' health, spirits, and, often,
hearts!
* * * * *
MODERN VERSION OF "WISE MEN OF THE EAST."--The Congress of
Orientalists.
* * * * *
NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS.,
Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no
case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed
Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.