The lady identified Aldworth's red poll,
And thought, 'Well, I wish you, poor fellow, good luck,
Or--more to the purpose--I wish you, good pluck!'
For her father was urging in solemn oration,
'You need, my young friend, for your fearful probation
Endurance--true Courage--and strong Veneration!
We commence with (don't grin, sir!) a pleasant frivolity:--
Just give of Endurance a taste of your quality;
'Tis nothing--a towelling. Brothers, prepare!'
Then each had a flick at Dick's legs--which were bare:
He danced and he pranced at each cut of the towel
And prod from the rear with a sharp-pointed trowel,
And look'd--as he caper'd in lily-white kilt--
The ghost of a Highlander dancing a lilt.
To Scotch eyes, however, The steps might seem clever,
Dick show'd less a hero in Betty's than ever,
And shock'd, when he cried--cutting up rather rough--
'D longstroke your optics--hold hard! That's enough!'
'Enough?' said the worshipful, 'Yes, of this fun!
Stern proof of your courage has not yet begun;
D'ye hear, sir, those knocks? Brothers, let in the stoker,
And form a procession to bring in the poker!
See the surgeon is ready to make all secure
With lancet and tourniquet, bandage and ligature!'
But why freeze your marrow--Your feelings why harrow?
Your hearts are too soft and our space is too narrow
To tell all the horrors! 'Twould fill you with awe
To listen to half that Elizabeth saw:--
Let us come to Dick's howl--such a howl!--which as soon
As she heard it, Miss Betty fell down in a swoon
All in a lump, With a bump and a thump
That made all the brothers to gape and to jump.
And turn pale and cry, 'Bedad there's a spy
Shut up in that closet, and there he shall die!
To rush to the chamber--to find what was in it
And seize the eavesdropper--was the work of a minute;
To lift up and shake her, To rouse up and wake her
To consciousness--then in the Lodge-room to take her,
Was work for six brothers, who cried as they brought her,
'We've sought her and caught her!' My lord cried, 'My daughter!'
And sunk down as needing, himself, a supporter:--
In rush'd the tylers, Crusty old file-ers!
With anger 'a busting their blessed old bilers;'
Looking so grim at her, One raised his cimeter,
And to very short shift was advancing to limit her,
As 'Hold!' cried my lord, 'Hear your master--or rather,
I'd speak to you all, as her judge--not her father!
Perchance she knows nothing, and, if she will swear it,
Her life shall be spared--_I_, your _Master_, will spare it!
Oh, tell me, my child, what you've seen--what you've heard?'
The truthful girl sobb'd, 'Ev'ry act! ev'ry word!'
'Alas,' faltered he, 'you have seal'd your own doom!'
And 'Down with the spy!' cried each one in the room;
One raised a dagger, Some shouted 'Scrag her!'
Some raised a trap-door, and rush'd forward to drag her,
When a voice like a thunder-clap topp'd all the rest,
And Dick semi-dress'd Presented his breast
Before her, 'Strike _here_!' was his manly request:
'Strike me if you dare, By jingo, I swear
Of her you shall touch not so much as a hair!
I mean, my good sirs, Whatever occurs
To your lives or mine, you shall not take _hers_!
Her white arm how dare you place finger or fist on?'
And Dick, shooting out his own arm like a piston,
Knock'd over a senior warden who held her;
Sent spinning a middle-aged junior--his elder,
Hit out at a tyler, A blatant reviler,
Mash'd the mug of a masher call'd 'Tim' the Beguiler;
'Look out!' cried another, 'The Saxon's a bruiser!'
And straightway got one on his 'conk'--a confuser!
A dozen unitedly Shouted excitedly
'Fell him, or else this young fellow will wallop us!'
Down went two deacons, Not very weak ones,
And a blow on the nose of the third burst a polypus,
When the hero (Dick now at the title arrives,
Denied him before he had handled his fives,
So many bawling, Reeling and sprawling,
For each brother knocked down another in falling),
Had 'flutter'd the Voices' from east to the west,
He paused like a warrior taking his rest,
Or Spartan who'd caused lots of Persians to topple, he
Took breath--as _he_ did at a place call'd Thermopylae.
Now outspoke my lord in a masterful way,
'A truce and a parley! I've something to say!
'Tis writ in our laws "If an eavesdropper pries
And filches our secrets, he (mark the HE!) dies!"
Now this is a _she_--therefore _not_ an eavesdropper;
To kill her, I say, would be highly improper
Unless she objects. To do as directs
The master (c'est moi!). Now mark what I say next!
Let's make her a mason, And put a good face on
The matter, believing she'll prove not a base one;
I'll take on myself--ending doubt and confusion--
To write to Great Queen Street and get absolution!'
Then upspake the stoker--A regular croaker,
'I'd like to know how you'll get over the poker!'
'Long ago,' said my lord---the precise _annus mundi_
'I can't call to mind--_regno Coli Jucundi_,
(A monarch whose province was Pipo-cum-Fiddlum--
A part of the region of Great Tarrididdlom)
Sundry by-laws were pass'd for emergencies various
Whereby the submission to brand is vicarious:
Will some volunteer (_Her_ substitute here)
Submit to the crucial test? 'Tis severe!'
Dick on now spake, 'E'en to the stake
'I'll go, like a martyr, as proxy to take
All over again for the dear lady's sake;--
That is (here he tenderly glanced), she approving?'
'I do!' said the maiden, in accent quite loving.
'Agreed!' shouted all who'd been punch'd, 'Be it so!'
Glad, no doubt, of the chance to give Dick _quid pro quo_.
The lady withdrew, in well-guarded condition;
The deck's quickly clear'd for the second edition
Of flicks and of kicks, Pinching and licks,
Twingeing and singeing--but murmur of Dick's
None heard e'en a word; he was truly heroic,
And went through it all with a smile, like a stoic;
And when he--so rumpled from processes recent--
Retired to make himself decently decent,
Miss St. Ledger return'd--resolution her face on--
Took the oaths, and was enter'd a 'Prenticed Freemason!
Moral.
When you meet with a mason, just mention this lass;
I warrant she'll prove an excuse for a glass!
If he's a true brother, the toast is a favourite,
He's good for a bottle, but mind _you_ don't pay for it!
You've but to edge her Name in, and pledge her,
The Lady Freemason--MISS BETTY ST. LEDGER!
(_By permission of the Author._)
WHAT HAPPENED LAST NIGHT!
_From the French of M. Charles Monselet, by_ F. B. HARRISON.
I cannot deceive myself--I was horribly tipsy last night. Let him who
has never been in the like case throw the first empty bottle at me!
How did it happen? In this way. I, a civilian, reading law, was invited
to dine at the garrison mess. I had never been at a similar
entertainment, and I cannot but think, now that I look back on it, that
the officers played some trick on me. I only knew that they were
prodigiously polite, which always looks suspicious. From a certain
point, from the third course, I remember very little; a sort of cloudy
curtain intercepts the view like the curtains that come down in a
pantomime, and I don't know whether I was Clown, or Pantaloon, or
Columbine.
Yet something must have happened to me, a great many things. I've been
sleeping in my white tie; and then my face! What a shockingly yellow,
dissipated face! Upon my word, it is a pretty affair! At my time,
one-and-twenty, to be overcome by wine like a schoolboy out for a
holiday!
I cannot express what I think of it.
How am I to know what happened last night? Ask my landlady? No; I cannot
let her see how ashamed I am. Besides, she would only know the condition
in which I came home; and that I can guess.
They say that from a single bone Professor Owen can reconstruct an
entire antediluvian animal; I must try and do something similar to
reconstruct my existence during the last twelve or fourteen hours. I
must get hold of two or three clues.
Where can I find them?
In my pockets, perhaps.
Since I was a small boy I have always had the habit of stuffing them
with all manner of things. Now, this is the time for me to search them.
I tremble. What shall I find?
[_Searches his waistcoat pocket._
I have gently insinuated two fingers into my waistcoat-pocket,
and have brought out my purse. Empty! Hang it!
[_Lifts his overcoat from the floor._
On picking up my overcoat I have found my pocket-book, half open, and
the papers fallen from it on the carpet.
The first of these papers which catches my eye is the _carte_ of last
night's dinner. Well, who was there? How many of us? Several of the
fellows I knew, of course; but which of them? Happy thought! The _menu_
will remind me of their various tastes and reveal their names to me.
'Oysters.' Well, I know that the Colonel is a tremendous hand at
oysters, so I am sure he was there.
'Mulligatawny.' That is Captain Simpkin's soup, or rather liquid fire,
so Simpkins was there. Two of them.
'Roast Beef.' Makes me think of little Dumerque, the Jersey man, who
wants to be a thorough Englishman. He was there.
'Saddle of Mutton.' Tom Horsley, the inveterate steeple-chaser.
'Charlotte Russe.' That is Ned Walker, who published his travels from
"Peterborough to Petersburg." Now I know pretty well who some of my
fellow-guests were. As for the others----
[_Picks up some photographs._
Hallo! were there women at the mess? No, certainly not. Then we must
have talked of women, and the men must have given me photographs of
their female relatives. Strange thing to do! especially as I don't know
the ladies. Here's an ancient and fish-like personage in a blue jersey.
Dumerque's grandmother, I'll be bound. Here a stout, middle-aged dame,
widow probably. I know Simpkins wants to marry a widow, but why give me
her portrait?
And this--this is charming! Quite in the modern style--low forehead,
small nose, tiny mouth, all eyes, and what splendid eyes! and such
lashes! She is fair, as well as one can judge from a photograph. And the
little curls on her forehead are like rings of gold. And so young, a
mere child. A lovely figure; our forefathers would have compared her to
a rose-tree, but then our forefathers were not strong in similes. She
has neither ear-rings nor necklace; perhaps that gives her that look of
disdain. Disdain! she knows nothing yet of life, but tries to seem tired
of it. They are all like that.
Who is she? She must be the Colonel's daughter; I've heard that his
daughter is a pretty girl. I must have expressed my warm admiration of
the photograph, and he must have responded by giving it to me. Did I ask
him for her hand? Did he refuse it? or did he put off his reply? Perhaps
that was why I drank too much.
Now let me proceed. What further happened? Let me continue my
researches.
[_Tries the pockets of his overcoat._
By Jingo! Two visiting cards! The first says:
"Captain Wellington Spearman,
FIRST ROYAL LANCER DRAGOONS."
The other:
"Major Garnet Babelock Cannon,
RIFLE ARTILLERY."
Now, what does it all mean? I do not know those military gentlemen. They
must have been guests like myself. How do I come to have their cards?
There must have been some dispute, some quarrel, some row. These two
cards must have been given in exchange for two of mine.
It all comes back to me!
A duel--perhaps two duels!
But duels about what? Whom did I affront? I know I'm an awful fire-eater
when I've drank too much. But was I the challenger or the challenged? I
think my left cheek is rather swollen as if from a blow; but that is
mere fancy. What dreadful follies have I got myself into?
I can make out some pencil marks on the first card, that of the Captain
in the Lancer Dragoons. Yes. "Ten o'clock, behind St. Martin's Church."
Ah, a hostile meeting, that is clear. I must run, perhaps I shall be in
time.
No, too late; it is half-past eleven.
I am dishonoured, branded as a coward! No one will believe me when I say
that I had a headache, and overslept myself on the morning of a duel.
I have no energy to look further in my pocket. Still, one never
knows----
[_Brings out a handkerchief._
A handkerchief--a very fine one--thin cambric. But it is not one of
mine. There is a coronet in the corner. How did I come by this
handkerchief? Could I have stolen it? I seem to be on the road to the
county gaol.
Oh, how my head aches!
A flower is in my button-hole. How did it come there? Forget-me-nots;
their blue eyes closed, all withered and drooping. I could not have
bought so humble a bouquet at the flower-shop; it must have been given
me. It was given me, it came to me from the fair one with golden curls.
Her father gave it to me from her, knowing that I was about to risk my
life--to risk my life for her sake, no doubt.
Yes, that is it. My fears increase. I dread to know more. I am afraid to
prosecute my researches in my pockets. I may find my hands full of
forget-me-nots--or of blood!
Oh! ah! by jove!
What now?
This overcoat is not mine. No, mine is dark grey, this is light grey. I
have not travelled through my pockets, but through the pockets of
somebody else.
But then--if the coat is not mine, neither is the duel.
Not mine the _carte_.
Not mine the photographs.
Not mine the forget-me-nots.
Not mine the cards.
I have not stolen the handkerchief.
I am all right; thank goodness I am all right!
And my romance about the Colonel's lovely daughter--I am sorry about it,
upon my word. At least, I am sorry for her, for I fear now she will
never make my acquaintance.
(_By permission of_ MESSRS. R. BENTLEY & SON.)
THE FATAL LEGS.
WALTER BROWNE.
I am an actor, or rather, I call myself one. I am, however,
"disengaged;" the more so since Widow Walker has----. But let me not
anticipate; which, by-the-bye, I never could have done--no matter. I
took apartments, comfortably furnished, with a widow lady named Walker.
I was "first floor back"; and "first floor front" was Mr. Simon Simpkin,
of the ---- Theatre. The widow always called us "first floors," either
"back" or "front," and never by our names, although we never called her
out of hers. If we had, she would not have come. She was an obstinate
woman, but at times she got confused. She always called me in the
morning, and once she called me "front," and then went to Simpkin with
my shaving water. When I called her back, she called me something else,
and threw the pitcher at me. I was in hot water for a while.
The Widow Walker was fair, fat, and forty--that is, rather fair,
extremely fat, and very forty. She might be more; at any rate her voice
was forte too. The actor, Simpkin, was fragile and long. He played heavy
parts, which possibly was the cause of his constant complaint that he
had not got his share of "fat." Although lengthy, he was even less in
his various diameters than I was, still I longed for his length. And
why? The Widow Walker wallowed in wealth untold, and I could see she
smiled upon the suit of Simon Simpkin. Well she might. It was
second-hand. He, too, was a widower, or rather, he would have been if
his wife had lived. I mean, if she had lived to be his wife. But she
didn't. She died before the fatal knot was tied; in fact, it was not
tied at all. No matter, he had loved before, while my suit was brand
new. I determined to try it on. I longed to win the widow for my wife--I
should say for myself. One day I saw the actor kiss her through the
keyhole. We were rivals from that moment--at least I was. He didn't see
me, or he would have been one too; I mean one also. That is to say there
would have been two of us, whereas there was only one of me--no matter.
The widow went a good deal to the theatre. She ordered him, and he gave
her orders--that is, "passes for two." He knew her size. She always took
"twos" in seats. He did the villains at the theatre, while I did the
hero at home. He bellowed in blank verse, while I blew the kitchen fire
with the bellows. He mashed her, while I mashed the potatoes for supper.
But I determined to beard the clean-shaved lion in his lair. In short,
or rather, at length, I obtained an engagement, and became an actor. My
rival and myself now stood on the same footing. I mean we should have
done, only, in a word, we didn't. Simon Simpkin, as before observed,
indeed observed anyhow, was slender as a willow wand, and appropriately
pliable, especially about the legs. Still, on the stage, his nether
limbs looked round and well proportioned. His calves might pass for
cows, and his knees were second elbows, or rather, "Elba's"--they held a
bony part in exile.
On the other hand--I should say legs--my tights were always loose, and
while the widow smiled on his understanding, she smiled _at_ mine. I
thirsted for my hated rival's blood, or rather for his flesh, more
correctly speaking, for the shape of his legs--technically, for his
"leg-shapes." Having failed in an attempt to have his blood by means of
a darning-needle, I determined to go for his shapes. I went for them one
night before the performance. I went to his dressing-room and got them.
That night the Widow Walker was in front. I was desperate. I was
determined that she should see her Simpkin in all his naked--I should
say his unpadded--deformity, and that mine--that is, my limbs--should be
resplendent in his borrowed plumes. But alas, all my plans--and
myself--were violently overthrown--by Simpkin.
I had merely insinuated one leg in the woolly pads, when he insinuated
another somewhere else. We argued the matter all over my dressing-room.
Meanwhile, time jogged merrily along. The curtain was raised, and so
were we eventually; but unfortunately I had only retained one half of
those precious pads. The right was left on my leg, but Simpkin had
carried off the left leg all right! What was I to do? My left leg would
not look right, or if it did, my right would be wrong. There was no
time, however, for consideration, as my face required sponging before
applying the sticking-plaster, and eventually I had to hobble on to the
stage with two odd understandings--that is, one odd one and one even
one. Even that was odd, which appears odd--no matter.
Fortunately I went on from the O.P. side, which enabled me to put my
best leg foremost. In the centre of the stage I met Simpkin, who had
entered from the prompt side. The widow gazed with rapture on us both,
until, oh, horror! after a short scene it was necessary that each of us
should retire to the place from whence we came. We advanced towards it,
backwards, and mutually stumbling, our other legs became exposed to
view. A yell from the audience, the sack from the management, and a
week's notice from the widow, subsequently greeted us. Besides which,
Simpkin and myself are not on the best of terms. We get into argument
when we meet in the streets. I stay at home a good deal now.
(_By permission of the Author._)
THE CALIPH'S JESTER.
(FROM THE ARABIC.)
On a _musnud_ of state was reclining the Caliph, the Mighty Haroun;
His brow like the sun it was shining, his face it was like the full moon,
And his courtiers around him were standing, like stars in an indigo sky,
And the _saki_ the wine-cup was handing--for the monarch, though pious,
was dry.
And the poets their works were reciting in Arabic numbers divine,
The hearts of all hearers delighting with verses like Afdhal's or mine.
Then the Caliph glared round the assembly, as a lion glares round on the
herd,
And the knees of the courtiers grew trembly, and their hearts fluttered
e'en as a bird;
And cold drops were distilled from each forehead, and each tongue to its
palate did cling,
For their fear of their Caliph was horrid--he was such a passionate king!
At length in a voice that with passion was shaking, it pleased him to
speak:--
"Does he know whom he treats in this fashion? Did you e'er behold aught
like his cheek?
"This poet, this jester, this chaffer, this pig's son, this bullock,
this ass,
This black-hearted, black-visaged Kaffir, this Infidel, ABU NUWAS!"
"I bade him come hither to meet us, in this serious Council of State;
And this is the way he dares treat us. Ye dogs, he is five minutes late!"
Then the heart of his Highness relented; Rashid was of changeable mood;
"Maybe he's been somehow prevented; to get in a rage does no good.
"His jests, too, are always so pleasant, one somehow his impudence
stands;
Besides, poor Mesrour just at present has plenty of work on his hands.
"But although I can't perfectly tame him till he goes to the Nita to
school,
At least I can thoroughly shame him, and make him appear like a fool.
"Slaves, fetch me some eggs--not new laid--you can find some stale ones
that will do.
Now execute quick what I bade you, or else I will execute _you_."
They brought him the eggs in a charger, all studded with many a pearl,
The same pattern--though just a bit larger--as that of Herodias' girl;
And the Caliph took one egg, and hid it away in his cushion, which done,
He bade them all do so. They did it; and sat down awaiting the fun.
With an air that was saucy and braggish, with a step that was jaunty and
spruce,
With a smile that was merry and waggish, with a mien that was reckless
and loose,
With a "How is your high disposition to-morrow, if God should so will?"
With a "Here in our ancient position, your Majesty seeth us still!"
With a face all be-chalked and be-painted, with a bound through the
portal doth pass
One with whom we're already acquainted, the world-renowned Abu Nuwas!
"Right welcome! Right welcome! my brother!" his Majesty smilingly spake,
"We were just now in want of another, a nice game at forfeits to make.
"Whatever I do you must watch it, and each do precisely the same--
If I catch you chaps laughing you'll catch it! sit still and attend to
the game.
"If you do just as I do, precisely, a _dinar_ apiece shall ye gain,
If you don't, won't I give it you nicely--Mesrour you stand by with the
cane!"
He spake: and the smile on his features was mischievous, cunning and
grim,
And the courtiers, poor awe-stricken creatures, smiled feebly and gazed
upon him.
"Cluck, cluck, cluck aroo!" representing the note of a jubilant hen,
The Caliph arises, presenting an egg, to the sight of all men.
"Cluck, cluck, cluck aroo!" and the rabble are all at once up on their
legs,
And with ornithological gabble display their mysterious eggs.
Then without in the least hesitating steps Abu Nuwas before all.
"Cock-a-doodle doo doo!" imitating a rooster's hilarious call.
"Now I know why it is that you cackle," said he, "when you're trying
to talk!
And you find me a hard one to tackle, because I am COCK OF THE WALK!"
(_From_ "TEMPLE BAR," _by permission of the Editor_.)
A JOURNEY IN SEARCH OF NOTHING.
WILKIE COLLINS.
"Yes," said the doctor, pressing the tips of his fingers with a
tremulous firmness on my pulse, and looking straight forward into the
pupils of my eyes, "yes, I see: the symptoms all point unmistakeably
towards one conclusion--Brain. My dear sir, you have been working too
hard; you have been following the dangerous example of the rest of the
world in this age of business and bustle. Your brain is over-taxed--that
is your complaint. You must let it rest--there is your remedy."
"You mean," I said, "that I must keep quiet, and do Nothing?"
"Precisely so," replied the doctor. "You must not read or write; you
must abstain from allowing yourself to be excited by society; you must
have no annoyances; you must feel no anxieties; you must not think; you
must be neither elated nor depressed; you must keep early hours and take
an occasional tonic, with moderate exercise, and a nourishing but not
too full a diet--above all, a perfect repose is essential to your
restoration, you must go away into the country, taking any direction you
please, and living just as you like, as long as you are quiet and as
long as you do Nothing."
"I presume he is not to go away into the country without ME," said my
wife, who was present at the interview.
"Certainly not," rejoined the doctor, with an acquiescent bow. "I look
to your influence, my dear madam, to encourage our patient in following
my directions. It is unnecessary to repeat them, they are so extremely
simple and easy to carry out. I will answer for your husband's recovery
if he will but remember that he has now only two objects in life--to
keep quiet, and to do Nothing."
My wife is a woman of business habits. As soon as the doctor had taken
his leave, she produced her pocket-book, and made a brief abstract of
his directions for our future guidance. I looked over her shoulder and
observed that the entry ran thus:--