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HUMOROUS READINGS
AND
RECITATIONS.
HUMOROUS READINGS
AND
RECITATIONS
_IN PROSE AND VERSE_.
SELECTED AND EDITED
BY
LEOPOLD WAGNER,
EDITOR OF
"MODERN READINGS AND RECITATIONS,"
"NEW READINGS FROM AMERICAN AUTHORS," ETC.
London and New York:
FREDERICK WARNE AND CO.
1889.
LONDON:
BRADBURY, AGNEW, & CO., PRINTERS, WHITEFRIARS.
PREFACE.
In introducing to the public a Third Series of "Popular Readings," I
consider it merely necessary to state that the courtesy of authors and
publishers has enabled me to bring together a choice selection of
humorous pieces which have acquired a large share of popularity, in
addition to a number of others that may justly be regarded as novelties.
Concerning the former, I have so often had occasion to answer inquiries
respecting particular pieces for recitation, that it occurred to me the
handy collection of those most generally sought after, but hitherto
scattered through various publications, would be welcomed by many; and I
took steps accordingly. How far I have succeeded in my purpose a glance
at the Contents-list will show. For the fresh matter admitted to these
pages, I sincerely trust that from among so many new candidates for
popularity, at least one or two of them may be elected to represent the
Penny Reading Constituents of each respective Borough for some time to
come.
Once more I beg to express my indebtedness and thanks to those authors
and publishers who have so generously placed their copyright pieces at
my disposal.
L. W.
BROMPTON.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
ACCOMPANIED ON THE FLUTE _F. Anstey_ 1
THE TROUBLES OF A TRIPLET _W. Beatty-Kingston_ 8
SLIGHTLY DEAF _Bracebridge Hemming_ 10
THE LADY FREEMASON _H. T. Craven_ 18
WHAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT! _F. B. Harrison_ 24
THE FATAL LEGS _Walter Browne_ 27
THE CALIPH'S JESTER _From the Arabic_ 29
A JOURNEY IN SEARCH OF NOTHING _Wilkie Collins_ 32
GEMINI AND VIRGO _C. S. Calverley_ 37
KING BIBBS _James Albery_ 41
MOLLY MULDOON _Anonymous_ 48
THE HARMONIOUS LOBSTERS _Robert Reece_ 52
THE PROVINCIAL LANDLADY _H. Chance Newton_ 57
MY MATRIMONIAL PREDICAMENT _Leopold Wagner_ 58
ETIQUETTE _W. S. Gilbert_ 62
A LOST SHEPHERD _Frank Barrett_ 65
A MATHEMATIC MADNESS _F. P. Dempster_ 70
WAITING AT TOTTLEPOT _J. Ashby-Sterry_ 72
MARRIED TO A GIANTESS _Walter Parke_ 75
THE VISION OF THE ALDERMAN _Henry S. Leigh_ 79
THE DEMON SNUFFERS _Geo. Manville Fenn_ 80
THE WALRUS AND THE CARPENTER _Lewis Carroll_ 86
MY BROTHER HENRY _J. M. Barrie_ 89
A NIGHT WITH A STORK _W. E. Wilcox_ 92
THE FAITHFUL LOVERS _F. C. Burnand_ 95
THE WAIL OF A BANNER-BEARER _Arthur Matthison_ 96
THE DREAM OF THE BILIOUS BEADLE _Arthur Shirley_ 99
MY FRIEND TREACLE _Watkin-Elliott_ 101
THE VOICE OF THE SLUGGARD _Anonymous_ 107
ARTEMUS WARD'S VISIT TO THE TOWER
OF LONDON _Chas. Farrar Browne_ 108
MR. CAUDLE HAS LENT AN ACQUAINTANCE
THE FAMILY UMBRELLA _Douglas Jerrold_ 111
DOMESTIC ASIDES _Tom Hood_ 113
THE CHARITY DINNER _Litchfield Moseley_ 115
ACTING WITH A VENGEANCE _W. Sapte, Jun._ 120
MY FORTNIGHT AT WRETCHEDVILLE _George Augustus Sala_ 126
THE SORROWS OF WERTHER _W. M. Thackeray_ 132
MORAL MUSIC _Anonymous_ 133
BILLY DUMPS, THE TAILOR _Charles Clark_ 136
ON PUNNING _Theodore Hook_ 139
SEASIDE LODGINGS _Percy Reeve_ 140
HUMOROUS READINGS
AND
RECITATIONS.
ACCOMPANIED ON THE FLUTE.
F. ANSTEY.
The Consul Duilius was entertaining Rome in triumph after his celebrated
defeat of the Carthaginian fleet at Mylae. He had won a great naval
victory for his country with the first fleet that it had ever
possessed--which was naturally a gratifying reflection, and he would
have been perfectly happy now if he had only been a little more
comfortable.
But he was standing in an extremely rickety chariot, which was crammed
with his nearer relations, and a few old friends, to whom he had been
obliged to send tickets. At his back stood a slave, who held a heavy
Etruscan crown on the Consul's head, and whenever he thought his master
was growing conceited, threw in the reminder that he was only a man
after all--a liberty which at any other time he might have had good
reason to regret.
Then the large Delphic wreath, which Duilius wore as well as the crown,
had slipped down over one eye, and was tickling his nose, while (as both
his hands were occupied, one with a sceptre the other with a laurel
bough, and he had to hold on tightly to the rail of the chariot whenever
it jolted) there was nothing to do but suffer in silence.
They had insisted, too, upon painting him a beautiful bright red all
over, and though it made him look quite new, and very shining and
splendid, he had his doubts at times whether it was altogether becoming,
and particularly whether he would ever be able to get it off again.
But these were but trifles after all, and nothing compared with the
honour and glory of it! Was not everybody straining to get a glimpse of
him? Did not even the spotted and skittish horses which drew the
chariot repeatedly turn round to gaze upon his vermilioned features? As
Duilius remarked this he felt that he was, indeed, the central personage
in all this magnificence, and that, on the whole, he liked it.
He could see the beaks of the ships he had captured bobbing up and down
in the middle distance; he could see the white bulls destined for
sacrifice entering completely into the spirit of the thing, and
redeeming the procession from any monotony by occasionally bolting down
a back street, or tossing on their gilded horns some of the flamens who
were walking solemnly in front of them.
He could hear, too, above five distinct brass bands, the remarks of his
friends as they predicted rain, or expressed a pained surprise at the
smallness of the crowd and the absence of any genuine enthusiasm; and he
caught the general purport of the very offensive ribaldry circulated at
his own expense among the brave legions that brought up the rear.
This was merely the usual course of things on such occasions, and a
great compliment when properly understood, and Duilius felt it to be so.
In spite of his friends, the red paint, and the familiar slave, in spite
of the extreme heat of the weather and his itching nose, he told himself
that this, and this alone, was worth living for.
And it was a painful reflection to him that, after all, it would only
last a day; he could not go on triumphing like this for the remainder of
his natural life--he would not be able to afford it on his moderate
income; and yet--and yet--existence would fall woefully flat after so
much excitement.
It may be supposed that Duilius was naturally fond of ostentation and
notoriety, but this was far from being the case; on the contrary, at
ordinary times his disposition was retiring and almost shy, but his
sudden success had worked a temporary change in him, and in the very
flush of triumph he found himself sighing to think, that in all human
probability, he would never go about with trumpeters and trophies, with
flute-players and white oxen, any more in his whole life.
And then he reached the Porta Triumphalis, where the chief magistrates
and the Senate awaited them, all seated upon spirited Roman-nosed
chargers, which showed a lively emotion at the approach of the
procession, and caused most of their riders to dismount with as much
affectation of method and design as their dignity enjoined and the
nature of the occasion permitted.
There Duilius was presented with the freedom of the city and an address,
which last he put in his pocket, as he explained, to read at home.
And then an AEdile informed him in a speech, during which he twice lost
his notes, and had to be prompted by a lictor, that the grateful
Republic, taking into consideration the Consul's distinguished services,
had resolved to disregard expense, and on that auspicious day to give
him whatever reward he might choose to demand--"in reason," the AEdile
added cautiously, as he quitted his saddle with an unexpectedness which
scarcely seemed intentional.
Duilius was naturally a little overwhelmed by such liberality, and, like
every one else favoured suddenly with such an opportunity, was quite
incapable of taking complete advantage of it.
For a time he really could not remember in his confusion anything he
would care for at all, and he thought it might look mean to ask for
money.
At last he recalled his yearning for a Perpetual Triumph, but his
natural modesty made him moderate, and he could not find courage to ask
for more than a fraction of the glory that now attended him.
So, not without some hesitation, he replied that they were exceedingly
kind, and since they left it entirely to his discretion, he would
like--if they had no objection--he would like a flute-player to attend
him whenever he went out.
Duilius very nearly asked for a white bull as well; but, on second
thoughts, he felt it might lead to inconvenience, and there were many
difficulties connected with the proper management of such an animal. The
Consul, from what he had seen that day, felt that it would be imprudent
to trust himself in front of the bull, while, if he walked behind, he
might be mistaken for a cattle-driver, which would be odious. And so he
gave up that idea, and contented himself with a simple flute-player.
The Senate, visibly relieved by so unassuming a request, granted it with
positive effusion; Duilius was invited to select his musician, and chose
the biggest, after which the procession moved on through the arch and up
the Capitoline Hill, while the Consul had time to remember things he
would have liked even better than a flute-player, and to suspect dimly
that he might have made rather an ass of himself.
* * * * *
That night Duilius was entertained at a supper given at the public
expense; he went out with the proud resolve to show his sense of the
compliment paid him by scaling the giddiest heights of intoxication. The
Romans of that day only drank wine and water at their festivals, but it
is astonishing how inebriated a person of powerful will can become, even
on wine and water, if he only gives his mind to it. And Duilius, being a
man of remarkable determination, returned from that hospitable board
particularly drunk; the flute-player saw him home, however, helped him
to bed, though he could not induce him to take off his sandals, and
lulled him to a heavy slumber by a selection from the popular airs of
the time.
So that the Consul, although he awoke late next day with a bad headache
and a perception of the vanity of most things, still found reason to
congratulate himself upon his forethought in securing so invaluable an
attendant, and planned, rather hopefully, sundry little ways of making
him useful about the house.
As the subsequent history of this great naval commander is examined with
the impartiality that becomes the historian, it is impossible to be
blind to the melancholy fact that in the first flush of his elation
Duilius behaved with an utter want of tact and taste that must have gone
far to undermine his popularity, and proved a source of much
gratification to his friends.
He would use that flute-player everywhere--he overdid the thing
altogether: for example, he used to go out to pay formal calls, and
leave the flute-player in the hall tootling to such an extent that at
last his acquaintances were forced in self-defence to deny themselves to
him.
When he attended worship at the temples, too, he would bring the
flute-player with him, on the flimsy pretext that he could assist the
choir during service; and it was the same at the theatres, where
Duilius--such was his arrogance--actually would not take a box unless
the manager admitted the flute-player to the orchestra and guaranteed
him at least one solo between the acts.
And it was the Consul's constant habit to strut about the Forum with his
musician executing marches behind him, until the spectacle became so
utterly ridiculous that even the Romans of that age, who were as free
from the slightest taint of humour as a self-respecting nation can
possibly be, began to notice something peculiar.
But the day of retribution dawned at last. Duilius worked the flute so
incessantly that the musician's stock of airs was very soon exhausted,
and then he was naturally obliged to blow them through once more.
The excellent Consul had not a fine ear, but even he began to hail the
fiftieth repetition of "Pugnare nolumus," for instance--the great
national peace anthem of the period--with the feeling that he had heard
the same tune at least twice before, and preferred something slightly
fresher, while others had taken a much shorter time in arriving at the
same conclusion.
The elder Duilius, the Consul's father, was perhaps the most annoyed by
it; he was a nice old man in his way--the glass and china way--but he
was a typical old Roman, with a manly contempt for pomp, vanity, music,
and the fine arts generally, so that his son's flute-player, performing
all day in the courtyard, drove the old gentleman nearly mad, until he
would rush to the windows and hurl the lighter articles of furniture at
the head of the persistent musician, who, however, after dodging them
with dexterity, affected to treat them as a recognition of his efforts
and carried them away gratefully to sell.
Duilius senior would have smashed the flute, only it was never laid
aside for a single instant, even at meals; he would have made the
player drunk and incapable, but he was a member of the _Manus Spei_, and
he would with cheerfulness have given him a heavy bribe to go away, if
the honest fellow had not proved absolutely incorruptible.
So he would only sit down and swear, and then relieve his feelings by
giving his son a severe thrashing, with threats to sell him for whatever
he might fetch; for, in the curious conditions of ancient Roman society,
a father possessed both these rights, however his offspring might have
distinguished himself in public life.
Naturally, Duilius did not like the idea of being put up to auction, and
he began to feel that it was slightly undignified for a Roman general
who had won a naval victory and been awarded a first-class Triumph to be
undergoing corporeal punishment daily at the hands of an unflinching
parent, and accordingly he determined to go and expostulate with his
flute-player.
He was beginning to find him a nuisance himself, for all his old shy
reserve and unwillingness to attract attention had returned to him; he
was fond of solitude, and yet he could never be alone; he was weary of
doing everything to slow music, like the bold, bad man in a melodrama.
He could not even go across the street to purchase a postage-stamp
without the flute-player coming stalking out after him, playing away
like a public fountain; while, owing to the well-known susceptibility of
a rabble to the charm of music, the disgusted Consul had to take his
walks abroad at the head of Rome's choicest scum.
Duilius, with a lively recollection of these inconveniences, would have
spoken very seriously indeed to his musician, but he shrank from hurting
his feelings by plain truth. He simply explained that he had not
intended the other to accompany him _always_, but only on special
occasions; and, while professing the sincerest admiration for his
musical proficiency, he felt, as he said, unwilling to monopolise it,
and unable to enjoy it at the expense of a fellow-creature's rest and
comfort.
Perhaps he put the thing a little too delicately to secure the object he
had in view, for the musician, although he was deeply touched by such
unwonted consideration, waved it aside with a graceful fervour which was
quite irresistible.
He assured the Consul that he was only too happy to have been selected
to render his humble tribute to the naval genius of so great a
commander; he would not admit that his own rest and comfort were in the
least affected by his exertions, for, being naturally fond of the flute,
he could, he protested, perform upon it continuously for whole days
without fatigue. And he concluded by pointing out very respectfully that
for the Consul to dispense, even to a small extent, with an honour
decreed (at his own particular request) by the Republic, would have the
appearance of ingratitude, and expose him to the gravest suspicions.
After which he rendered the ancient love-chant, "Ludus idem, ludus
vetus," with singular sweetness and expression.
Duilius felt the force of his arguments. Republics are proverbially
forgetful, and he was aware that it might not be safe even for him, to
risk offending the Senate.
So he had nothing to do but just go on, and be followed about by the
flute-player, and castigated by his parent in the old familiar way,
until he had very little self-respect left.
At last he found a distraction in his care-laden existence--he fell
deeply in love. But even here a musical Nemesis attended him, to his
infinite embarrassment, in the person of his devoted follower. Sometimes
Duilius would manage to elude him, and slip out unseen to some sylvan
retreat, where he had reason to hope for a meeting with the object of
his adoration. He generally found that in this expectation he had not
deceived himself; but, always, just as he had found courage to speak of
the passion that consumed him, a faint tune would strike his ear from
afar, and, turning his head in a fury, he would see his faithful
flute-player striding over the fields in pursuit of him with
unquenchable ardour.
He gave in at last, and submitted to the necessity of speaking all his
tender speeches "through music." Claudia did not seem to mind it,
perhaps finding an additional romance in being wooed thus; and Duilius
himself, who was not eloquent, found that the flute came in very well at
awkward pauses in the conversation.
Then they were married, and, as Claudia played very nicely herself upon
the _tibiae_, she got up musical evenings, when she played duets with the
flute-player, which Duilius, if he had only had a little more taste for
music, might have enjoyed immensely.
As it was, beginning to observe for the first time that the musician was
far from uncomely, he forbade the duets. Claudia wept and sulked, and
Claudia's mother said that Duilius was behaving like a brute, and she
was not to mind him; but the harmony of their domestic life was broken,
until the poor Consul was driven to take long country walks in sheer
despair, not because he was fond of walking, for he hated it, but simply
to keep the flute-player out of mischief.
He was now debarred from all other society, for his old friends had long
since cut him dead whenever he chanced to meet them. "How could he
expect people to stop and talk," they asked indignantly, "when there was
that confounded fellow blowing tunes down the backs of their necks all
the time?"
Duilius had had enough of it himself, and felt this so strongly that one
day he took his flute-player a long walk through a lonely wood, and,
choosing a moment when his companion had played "Id omnes faciunt" till
he was somewhat out of breath, he turned on him suddenly. When he left
the lonely wood he was alone, and near it something which looked as if
it might once have been a musician.
The Consul went home, and sat there waiting for the deed to become
generally known. He waited with a certain uneasiness, because it was
impossible to tell how the Senate might take the thing, or the means by
which their vengeance would declare itself.
And yet his uneasiness was counterbalanced by a delicious relief: the
State might disgrace, banish, put him to death even, but he had got rid
of slow music for ever; and as he thought of this, the stately Duilius
would snap his fingers and dance with secret delight.
All disposition to dance, however, was forgotten upon the arrival of
lictors bearing an official missive. He looked at it for a long time
before he dared to break the big seal, and cut the cord which bound the
tablets which might contain his doom.
He did it at last; and smiled with relief as he began to read: for the
decree was courteously, if not affectionately, worded. The Senate,
considering (or affecting to consider) the disappearance of the
flute-player a mere accident, expressed their formal regret at the
failure of the provision made in his honour.
Then, as he read on, Duilius dashed the tablets into small fragments,
and rolled on the ground, and tore his hair, and howled; for the
senatorial decree concluded by a declaration that, in consideration of
his brilliant exploits, the State hereby placed at his disposal two more
flute-players, who, it was confidently hoped, would survive the wear and
tear of their ministrations longer than the first.
Duilius retired to his room and made his will, taking care to have it
properly signed and attested. Then he fastened himself in; and when they
broke down the door next day they found a lifeless corpse, with a
strange sickly smile upon its pale lips.
No one in Rome quite made out the reason of this smile, but it was
generally thought to denote the gratification of the deceased at the
idea of leaving his beloved ones in comfort, if not in luxury; for,
though the bulk of his fortune was left to Carthaginian charities, he
had had the forethought to bequeath a flute-player apiece to his wife
and mother-in-law.
(_From_ "THE BLACK POODLE," _by permission of Messrs. Longmans,
Green, & Co._)
THE TROUBLES OF A TRIPLET.
W. BEATTY-KINGSTON.
I am, I really think, the most unlucky man on earth;
A triple sorrow haunts me, and has done so from my birth.
My lot in life's a gloomy one, I think you will agree;
'Tis bad enough to be a twin--but I am one of three!
No sooner were we born than Pa and Ma the bounty claimed;
I scarce can bear to think they did--it makes me feel ashamed,
They got it, too, within a week, and spent it, I'll be bound,
Upon themselves--at least, I know I never had _my_ pound.
Our childhood's days in ignorance were lamentably spent,
Although I think we more than paid the taxes, and the rent;
For we were shown as marvels, and--unless I'm much deceived--
The smallest contributions were most thankfully received.
We grew up hale and hearty--would we never had been born!--
As like to one another as three peas, or ears of corn.
Between my brothers _Ichabod_, _Abimelech_ and me
No difference existed which the human eye could see.
This likeness was the cause of dreadful suffering and pain
To me in early life--it nearly broke my heart in twain;
For while my conduct as a youth was fervently admired,
That of my fellow-triplets left a deal to be desired.
I was amiable, and pious, too--good deeds were my delight,
I practised all the virtues--some by day and some by night;
Whilst _Ichabod_ imbrued himself in crime, and, sad to say,
_Abimelech_, when quite a lad, would rather swear than pray.
Think of my horror and dismay when, in the Park at noon,
An obvious burglar greeted me with, "Hullo, Ike, old coon!"
He vanished. Suddenly my wrists were gripped by Policeman X----,
"Young man, you are my prisoner on a charge of forgin' cheques."
He ran me in, and locked me up, to moulder in a cell,
The reason why he used me thus, alas! I know too well.
He took me for _Abimelech_, my erring brother dear,
Who was "wanted" by the Bank of which he'd been the chief cashier.
Next morn the magistrate remarked, "This is a sad mistake,
Though natural enough, I much regret it for your sake;
But if you will permit me to advise you, I should say
Leave England for some other country, very far away.
"For if you go on living in this happy sea-girt isle,
Although your conduct (like my own) be pure and free from guile,
Your likeness to those sinful men, your brothers twain, will lead,
I fear, to very serious inconveniences indeed."
I took the hint, and sailed next day for distant Owhyhee,--
As might have been expected, I was cast away at sea.
A Pirate Lugger picked me up, and--dreadful to relate--
_Abimelech_ her captain was, and _Ichabod_ her mate.
I loved them and they tempted me. To join them I agreed,
Forsook the path of virtue, and did many a ghastly deed.
For seven years I wallowed in my fellow-creatures' gore,
And then gave up the business, to settle down on shore.
My brothers on retiring from the buccaneering trade,
In which, I'm bound to say, colossal fortunes they had made,
Renounced their wicked courses, married young and lovely wives,
Went to church three times on Sundays, and led sanctimonious lives.
As for me,--I somehow drifted into vileness past belief,
Earned unsavoury distinction as a drunkard and a thief;
E'en in crime, ill-luck pursued me: I became extremely poor,
And was finally compelled to beg my bread from door to door.
I'm deep down in the social scale, no lower can I sink;
Upon the whole, experience induces me to think
That virtue is not lucrative, and honesty's all fudge,--
For _Ichabod's_ a Bishop--and _Abimelech's_ a Judge!
(_From_ "PUNCH," _by permission of the Proprietors_.)
SLIGHTLY DEAF.
BRACEBRIDGE HEMMING.
Mr. Loyd was a retired shopkeeper residing at The Lodge, Norwood. He had
amassed a fortune of thirty thousand pounds in the grocery business,
principally by sanding his sugar and flouring his mustard, and other
little tricks of the trade. Yet he went to church every Sunday with a
clear conscience. At the time I introduce him to you he was a widower
with one son, Joseph, aged eighteen.
Joseph was a shy, putty-faced youth, who had the misfortune to be deaf.
"Slightly deaf," his father called him, but he grew worse instead of
better, and threatened to become as deaf as a post or a beetle in time.
Of course his infirmity stood in the way of his getting employment, for
he was always making mistakes of a ludicrous and sometimes aggravating
nature. Add to this that Joseph was very lean and his father very fat,
and you will understand why people called them "Feast and Famine," or
"Substance and Shadow."
One morning after breakfast, Mr. Loyd, who had been looking over some
paid bills, exclaimed, "Joe."
Joseph was reading the paper, and made no answer.
"Joe," thundered his father.
This time the glasses on the sideboard rang, and Joseph got up, walked
to the window and looked out.
"What are you doing?" shouted Mr. Loyd.
"I thought I heard the wind blow," replied Joseph.
"Well! I like that; it was I calling."
"You!"
"Yes, sir."
Joseph invariably grew very angry if he did not hear anybody, for he was
ashamed of his deafness; but he often fell into a brown study and was as
deaf as an adder.
Besides this he was more deaf on one side than on the other, as is often
the case, and he happened to have his very bad ear turned to his father.
"Why don't you speak out?" said he.
"I did," replied Mr. Loyd.
"You always mumble."
"I halloaed loud enough to wake the dead."
"You know I'm slightly deaf."
"Slightly! You'll have to buy an ear-trumpet."
"Trumpet be blowed," answered Joseph.
"Here, put these bills on the file," exclaimed Mr. Loyd, pointing to the
bundle.
Joseph advanced to the table, took up the bills, and deliberately threw
them into the fire, where they were soon blazing merrily.
Mr. Loyd uttered a cry of dismay, sprang up and ran to the grate, but he
was too late to save them.
"You double-barrelled idiot!" he cried.
"What's the fuss now?" asked Joseph calmly.
He always was as cool as a cucumber, no matter what he did.
"You'll never be worth your salt."
"What's my fault?"
"I said salt."
"Keep quiet and I'll get you some."
"No!" roared Mr. Loyd.
"What did you say so for then? It seems to me you don't know your own
mind two minutes together."
Mr. Loyd stamped his foot with impatience on the carpet.
"Oh dear! what a trial you are," he exclaimed. "They are receipted
bills, and I told you to put them on the file. F. I. L. E. Do you hear
that?"
"I hear it now," responded Joe. "It's a pity you won't speak up."
"So I do."
"They'll never call you leather-lungs."
"Oh Joe, Joe! you'll be the death of me. You're a duffer, and it is no
use saying you're not. I was going to tell you I'd got a berth for you,
but I'm afraid you could not keep it."
"What is it?"
"Clerk in the office of my old friend, Mr. Maybrick, the stockbroker."
"Eh!" said Joseph. "What's a mockstoker?"
"A stockbroker," shouted Mr. Loyd.
"Why didn't you say so at first. Do you think I don't know what that is?
I'm not quite such a fool as that comes to."
"You'd aggravate a saint, Joe."
"Paint your toe! Have you gone mad?"
"Great heavens! I shall hit you; get out," shrieked his father.
"Got the gout. Oh! that's another thing. I thought you'd have it. You
drink too much port after dinner."
"I say, Joe," cried Mr. Loyd, "are you doing this on purpose? You don't
understand a word I say; in fact, you misconstrue everything."
"If that is so I can't help it."
"You're getting worse."
"Don't do that," replied Joe gravely.
"Eh?"
"Don't curse me. If I am deaf, that is to say slightly deaf, it is my
misfortune, not my fault; you ought to make allowance for me, and speak
louder."
"Do you want me to be a foghorn, or a river steam tug?"
"Certainly not."
"Or a cavalry man's trumpet, or a bellowing bull?"
"No, father."
"Or," continued Mr. Loyd with rising temper, "a spouting whale, an Old
Bailey barrister, a town-crier, a grampus, a locomotive blowing off
steam, an Australian bell-bird, or a laughing jackass?"
"I'm sure I never laugh, so you needn't fling that at me."
"I wish you were dumb as well as deaf," groaned Mr. Loyd.
"Why?"
"Because I might then get you into the asylum."
"File 'em," muttered Joseph. "He's still thinking of the bills."
"Confound him," muttered his father. "He's worse than a county court
judgment. I don't know what to do with him."
To soothe his nerves he lighted a cigar, and looking in the fire puffed
away at the weed, while Joe again took up the paper and went on reading.
Half-an-hour passed.
Then Mr. Loyd said, "You know you're getting worse, but you're so
obstinate you won't admit it, and it's six to four you'll not yield."
Joseph looked up with irritating calmness.
"No, thanks," he exclaimed.
"What do you mean?"
"I never bet."
"Who talked about betting?" yelled his father.
"You offered six to four on the field, and----"
"I didn't. Yah!"
"Never mind; I sha'n't take you," replied Joseph.
Mr. Loyd got up and did a war dance.
"Who asked you to?"
"You did. It only wants six weeks to the Derby, and----"
Mr. Loyd lost all control over himself for the moment. He took up the
coal-scuttle and threw it at his son, which was a very reprehensible
thing to do; but it did not hurt Joseph, for that intelligent youth saw
it coming, and ducking his head, it went with a crash through the window
into the street.
"That's a clever thing to do," said Joseph, without so much as winking.
"You need not get mad because I won't bet."
His father shook his fist at him.
"You'll be my death," he replied, sinking into a chair with a gasp.
"I can't help it if I am deaf," rejoined the imperturbable Joseph.
"You're sharper than a serpent's tooth."
"It wasn't very sharp of you to break the window."
"Go to Putney!"
"Where am I to get putty?" said Joseph. "Send for a glazier."
"Bless us and save us!" groaned Mr. Loyd.
"There isn't much saving in having a broken window to catch cold by."
Mr. Loyd rushed into the hall, and taking down his hat and coat from the
rack, put them on.
"Come up to town at once," he exclaimed; "we'll go and see Mr.
Maybrick."
"What's the good of a hayrick?" asked Joseph simply.
"Eh?"
"You can't stop a hole in a window with a hayrick."
"I said Maybrick, the broker," roared Mr. Loyd, putting his hands to his
mouth.
"I do wish you'd speak out."
"Get a trumpet. Yah!"
"Trump it! we're not playing whist."
"Oh dear!" sighed Mr. Loyd. "He must be apprenticed to Maybrick. I'll
pay a premium if it's a hundred pounds. I'm not a hog, and don't want to
enjoy this all by myself. I'll share it with another. It's too much for
one to struggle with. I can't undertake the worry single-handed, it's
too much."
He had to go close up to Joseph and bawl in his ear to make him
understand what he wanted, for he had never found his son's deafness so
bad as it was that day.
Joseph was quite willing to go, and quitting the house, they took the
train and went to town together.
It was yet early in the day, and they reached the broker's office about
twelve, finding him in and at leisure. During the journey, Mr. Loyd had
impressed upon Joseph the necessity of keeping his ears open as well as
he could, for if he made any mistakes he would soon get "chucked," as
they say in the City, and Joe promised to be as wideawake as his
infirmity would permit him.
How wideawake this was, we shall see.
Mr. Maybrick had done business with Mr. Loyd for many years, and
received him in his private office with all the cordiality of an old
friend.
"Brought my boy to introduce to you," exclaimed the retired grocer.
"Very glad to know the young gentleman," replied Mr. Maybrick; "take a
chair. Have a cigar. Quite a chip of the old block, I see; what's his
name?"
"Joseph. Joe for short."
"Very good; now what can I do for you, are you going to open stock?"
"Not to-day."
"Markets are very firm."
"I didn't come for that purpose, Maybrick; I want to get the youngster
into your office."
"Oh! yes," answered the broker, "I forgot; you spoke about it a little
while ago."
"Last time I was up, when I bought those 'Russians'!"
"Against my advice, and burnt your fingers over them."
"True."
"Well, I'll take him. One hundred pounds premium, no salary first year,
then seventy pounds and an annual rise according to ability."
"That will do."
"I hope he's smart."
"Smart as a steel trap, though sometimes he's a little absent-minded;
and you've got to speak loudly, maybe more than once, but that's only
now and again. I'll write you a cheque and leave him here, so that he
will know the ropes."
"Very well, I daresay we shall get on. I've ten clerks, and I've only
changed once in ten years."
"That speaks well for you."
"I read character, and I'm kind," said Mr. Maybrick. "Sit at my table,
you'll find pen and ink."
While Mr. Loyd was getting out his cheque-book and writing the draft,
Mr. Maybrick turned his attention to his new clerk.
"Have you ever been out before?" he queried.
"Go out of the door?" replied Joe. "Yes sir, if you want to say anything
of a private nature, I'll go with pleasure."
"No! no! do you understand work?"
"I beg your pardon, I sha'n't shirk anything."
"Bless me!" cried the broker, "I mean do you know business?"
"No business," answered Joseph, with a solemn shake of the head; "I am
sorry for that; times are dull though, all round."
"I've got plenty, you mistake me, don't run away with that idea, you
won't find this an easy place."
"Got a greasy face, have I?" responded Joseph. "It's not very polite of
you to tell me that."
"What the----" began Mr. Maybrick, when Joe's father handed him the
cheque.
"There's the needful," exclaimed Mr. Loyd.
"Thanks," replied the broker, adding, "I say, old friend isn't Master
Joseph a little hard of hearing?"
"Oh! ah! not that exactly."
"What then?"
"He's got a cold in his head."
"Is that all?"
"Yes, he got his feet wet," said Mr. Loyd confidentially, "and I had to
bawl at him this morning."
"I thought he was, ahem! a little deaf."
"Bless you no, raise your voice, that's all you've got to do."
"Ah! I see. It's bad to be like that," answered Mr. Maybrick, whose
doubts were removed. "The weather's been so bad, everyone has had cold
more or less."
Telling the intelligent Joseph that he should expect him home to dinner
at seven, Mr. Loyd took leave of the broker, who gave his new clerk some
accounts to enter in a book, saying that he might sit in his office for
the remainder of that day and he would find him desk-room on the morrow,
after which he hurried away to see what was going on in the general
room.
Joseph hung up his hat and coat, and set to work. He certainly meant to
do his best. They say a certain place, which the Hebrews call Sheol, is
paved with good intentions; anyhow the fates were against him. Never
before had his deafness been so bad. It seemed to have swooped down upon
and swamped him all at once.
Scarcely had he begun his work than he was startled by the ringing of a
bell.
It was just over his head and proceeded from the telephone.
Now Joseph knew just as much about a telephone as he did about the
phonograph or the dot-and-dash system of telegraphy.
He sprang from his chair, turned ghastly pale, and fancied it was an
alarm of fire.
What should he do?
For fully a minute he stood gazing vacantly at the box and the bell.
Then it rang again.
Joseph jumped half-a-foot in the air.
Then he rushed into the general room, where he found Mr. Maybrick
talking to a client.
"Please sir, can I disturb you for a moment?" he said.
"I'm very particularly engaged, Loyd," replied the broker.
"Excuse me, but----"
"What is it?"
"There's a bell ringing."
"Oh! the telephone. I forgot to tell you to attend to it."
"It's rung twice."
"Then somebody is in a hurry. Answer and come and tell me what it is."
"How do you do it, sir?"
"Speak through the instrument, ask who it is, and what he wants, and put
the tube to your ear."
The fright had somewhat stimulated Joseph's powers of hearing, for he
caught these instructions and hastened back to the inner office. After a
little experimenting he put himself in communication, and the following
colloquy ensued.
"Who is it?" asked Joe.
"Oliphant," was the reply.
"Elephant," mused Joe. "That's funny."
But he went at it again.
"What do you want?"
"By one o'clock, sell 10,000 Mex. Rails."
Joe heard this order imperfectly.
"Buy 10,000 ox-tails," he said to himself. "This is a queer business."
Yet he was not discouraged.
Joe had not come into the City for nothing. He meant to do his duty or
perish in the attempt.
"Right," he answered. "Is that all?"
"Yes. I'll call after lunch for the contract note."
"Very well, sir."
Having received his instructions, Joe, very proud of his success in
manipulating such a peculiar instrument as the telephone, sought his
employer.
"Well, Loyd," exclaimed that gentleman.
"It's all right, sir," replied Joe.
"What is?"
"The elephant wants you to buy him 10,000 ox-tails."
Mr. Maybrick elevated his eyebrows.
"Who did you say?" he demanded in a loud voice.
"The elephant."
"Mr. Oliphant, I suppose you mean."
"Ah! it might have been Oliphant, or Boliphant, it was something like
that."
"Ox-tails. Why not Mex. Rails.? Mexican Railways, you know."
"Humph," said Joe, "very likely."
"Are you sure he said 'buy?'"
"Oh! yes, sir, that was distinct enough, and he said he'd come after
lunch for the distracting note."
"Contract note."
"It may be that. The gentleman did not speak very distinctly."
"Oliphant has a low voice," said Mr. Maybrick, thoughtfully, "but he's
one of my best customers. Perhaps he's heard something; he must have got
some information. I'll have a bit in this myself. Oliphant is a very
shrewd and careful speculator. That will do, Loyd."
Joseph departed, highly delighted.
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Mr. Maybrick when Joe had gone, "my new clerk is
an odd one; 'Buy 10,000 ox-tails for the elephant,' that's good. I must
tell that story in the House."
He beckoned to his manager, who was a man named Mappin, and told him to
buy the required quantity of Mexican railway stock.
"Market's very weak, sir. It's fallen to-day one half already in
anticipation of a bad dividend," replied Mappin.
"Can't help that."
Mappin went away to execute the order.
An hour elapsed, and a special edition of an evening paper was brought
into the office.
It contained a telegram from Mexico, stating that there had not been one
revolution, and two earthquakes in that country before breakfast, as
usual, that morning. The railway dividend was remarkably good, and
Mexican Preference Stock went up five per cent., at which price the
broker took upon himself to close the account, thinking his client would
be well satisfied with his profits.
"Clever fellow, Oliphant," muttered Mr. Maybrick; "up to every move on
the board. Deuced clever!"
At that moment Mr. Oliphant, who was a stout, red-faced man, inclined to
apoplexy, rushed into the office.
He was agitated, and looked as if he was going to have a fit.
"Close the account," he gasped.
"I have done so," was the reply.
"What at?"
"A rise of five per cent."
"It will ruin me," groaned Oliphant.
"How? you telephoned me to buy."
"I said 'sell.'"
"Then my clerk made a mistake," exclaimed Maybrick; "but it's a lucky
mistake for both you and I, for I followed your lead."
"You're joking!"
"Never was more serious in my life. I'll give you a cheque at once."
Mr. Oliphant's face brightened.
"And I'll give your wooden-headed clerk a ten pound note," he said.
"That may console him for his dismissal," said Maybrick, dryly.
"Are you going to get rid of him?"
"Most decidedly. I cannot afford to keep a clerk who makes errors of
that kind. This time it has come out all right; next time it may be all
wrong."
"Just so," replied Mr. Oliphant.
He handed Maybrick the ten pounds, which the broker gave to Mappin,
telling him to present it to Joseph, and inform him that his services
would not be any longer required, and the premium his father had paid
should be returned by post. Then the broker gave Mr. Oliphant his
unexpected profits, and they went out to have a bottle of champagne
together.
Mappin sought Joseph.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Doing sums," replied Joe, which was his idea of book-keeping.
"Well, you need not do any more."
"No, I don't think it a bore," said Joe. "It's all in the day's work,
don't you know?"
"You're not wanted here."
"Can't I hear? what do you know about it?"
"The fool's deaf," cried Mappin, raising his voice. "Take this tenner
and go."
Joe heard this plain enough.
"Sacked!" he said, laconically.
"Yes," replied Mappin, nodding his head vigorously.
"What for?"
"Playing the fool with the telephone. We've no use for you."
"Oh! very well. I thought I shouldn't answer."
"You see, we don't run our business on the silent system."
Joe put on his hat and coat, with that perfect unconcern which always
distinguished him.
"Good morning," he said, pocketing the note. "I say, I don't think much
of telephones, do you?"
"Yes, it's a very clever invention."
"Ah! there's no accounting for taste."
With these words Joseph quitted the office, and took a walk in the City.
(_From_ "AWFUL STORIES," _by permission of_ Messrs. DIPROSE &
BATEMAN.)
THE LADY FREEMASON.
H. T. CRAVEN.
Vainly we seek it, Sanscrit or Greek writ
In hist'ry, the myst'ry of Solomon's secret:--
The dark queen of Sheba p'raps tried to get hold of it,
But didn't; at least if she _did_, we're not told of it.
If McAbel of Lodge number one lets it slip,
His brother O'Cain of Lodge two, gives the grip
_A la garotte_ they say. Be that as it may,
The Cowan is somehow put out of the way.
So now if you've fear for my prudence, dispel it;
First place, I don't know--next, I don't mean to tell it
But praise a shrewd guess, if you think I deserve it,
The cream of the secret is--_how to preserve it_!
A sworn brother mason who'd ever disseminate
His knowledge, or blab, would be worse than effeminate!
On feminine weakness, though, let me be reticent,
Rememb'ring the tale of the famous Miss Betty St.
Ledger, whose name sheds a permanent grace on
One fifty--the Lodge of the Lady Freemason.
My Lord Doneraile, Ne'er known to fail
In duties masonic, held land in entail
With a mansion near Dublin, of such wide dimension,
That a Freemason's Lodge of no little pretension
Was warranted, charter'd, and duly appointed,
And worshipful ruler my lord was anointed.
No master, 'twas said, ever laid down the law so;
No masons kept secrets so sacred--or swore so!
None drill'd and so skill'd were, in sep'rate degree,
By the P. M. presiding (of course my Lord D.)
It beggars description--you'd fail to appreciate
The hubbub within when they met to '_initiate_.'
Such tyling and tapping, Such knocking and rapping,
Such shrieks and such squeaks--such clapping and slapping
Such mauling and hauling and tearing and swearing,
Such whisp'ring of secrets and 'tell-if-you-dare'-ing--
Such groans and such yells, And such roast-goosey smells,
When the poker was used--like the scene in 'The Bells'
You doubtless have thought so appalling--enerving--
You'd think 'twas some madman, who thought himself Irving;
The cauterization, On good information,
Amounted, I say, to a partial cremation;
And sore on the subject were all Erin's gay sons
Next day, when the boys gave 'em sauce for 'fried masons.'
Be it known that Miss Betty was Doneraile's daughter,
And one Richard Aldworth aspired to court her,
Yet made his advances with progress so scanty,
He really remain'd much _in statu quo ante_;
His motto was '_Spero_,' But hope was at zero;
In the lady's eye Dick didn't pose as a hero
When her father, Lord Doneraile, ask'd of him, whether
He'd join the F.M.'s; he had shown the white feather!
Whereat the proud beauty declared that no other
Should e'er be _her_ slave than 'a man and a _brother_':
So Dick, having dined, and not quite _compos mentis_,
Agreed to go in for an 'entered apprentice.'
The eve had arrived, and the hall so baronial,
Was deck'd in due form for the night's ceremonial;
Miss Betty, in passing downstairs, chanced to see
Tho' the Chubb had been lock'd, they had left in the key
Of a small ante-room of some minor utility,
But prized by the Lodge for its accessibility:
Miss said to herself, 'Tho' I fear the attempt, I
Should like just to see what a Lodge is like--empty!'
Oh! daughters of Eve, There are some who believe
Your tongues are your weakness--your failing, verbosity;
While others contend, You'll never amend
Of that fault Mrs. Bluebeard possess'd--curiosity!
Now I--though I'd fain dub such slanders as petty--
Own they do say as much of dear, charming Miss Betty:
Tho' found to be equal, To hold tongue or speak well
With other good masons--but wait for the sequel!
In through this outer door--closing it warily;
Out through an inner door--softly and fairyly--
_She's there!_ In the Lodge, where wax tapers are blazing,
All deftly arranged with precision amazing:--
In the east for the Worshipful Boss is a throne.
In the west, Senior Warden--the places all shown
(No doubt to prevent any squabbles or wrangles)
Initiall'd on chair-backs, in gilded triangles;
On a table deep myst'ries we must not unravel--
The Mallet, the Plumb, and the Gauge, and the Gavel!
Other engines whose uses we fear to unriddle--
The Thumb-screw--the Pincers--a Poker--a Griddle!
With tapers and papers and paraphernalia,
Blue ribbons and jewels and things call'd 'Regalia!'
The silence and solitude there were delicious;
And any one caring to feel superstitious,
Might fancy the ghosts of freemasons, translated
To Lodges above--or below--reinstated,
Array'd in their mouldy old aprons; each brother
Past Master, who'd passed from this world to another.
But horror of horrors! whilst here she was musing,
Came footsteps without, and--oh! sound most confusing!
She heard the key turned. (That same key that beguiled
In the first-mention'd door.) _Now_ 'twas lock'd and fast tyled!
She rush'd to the ante-room, wild to get back,
But this cooled her courage, 'twas now _cul de sac_;
And hark! In the Lodge--to augment her disaster--
The Masons assembling, escorting the Master!
To hide while she thought how to 'scape from mishap,
She closed t'other door of this snug little trap;
That door has a crevice, and thereby new woes arise,
To secrets forbidden in vain 'tis to close her eyes;
How can she but note the masonic particulars,
With no cotton-wool to cram in her auriculars?
She heard her dad ask, most distinctly--and trembled
At Dogberry's words--"Are we here all dissembled?"
Then commenced ceremonials misty and mystical,
Questions and answers in form catechistical.
My lord, in a tone both emphatic and sonorous,
Impressing on each that his duties were onerous;
(One duty, to Betty, seem'd highly improper--
'Twas 'kill, without questioning, any eavesdropper!')
When the master, with sudden and well-feigned dismay,
For he very well knew that he'd got it to say,
Cried 'Hark, there is danger, I feel that a stranger
Who's seeking for knowledge is coming this way!'
Each took up a napkin--the end dipt in water,
And cried '_Porkitotius!_ Give him no quarter!'
While outside the door sundry knocks loud and clamorous
(As Vulcan might deal when in humour sledge-hammerous)
Were echoed within by three knocks--just the same,
With the pertinent query--'How now! What's your game?'
And a chap (_deshabille_) in great perturbation
Is 'run in,' very much like a prig to a station.