simply his due, but he knew this ragged young subject was looking for
patronage; he wanted a copper, and the king felt he could not afford it.
All who have studied the workings of the human heart know how we conceal
our motives even from ourselves. To look at King Bibbs you would have
thought he simply resented the boy's officiousness. He tried to persuade
himself so, but the underlying feeling was his annoyance at not having a
copper to spare. How he would have blushed if any of the Great Powers of
Europe could have seen him at that moment!
"Go to the devil," said the king to his subject. "Go away! go away!"
"Blow'd if I pay my income tax next week!" said the young traitor as he
made a very wicked face at the back of the cab.
"That's a bad boy," muttered Bibbs, as the cab drove off.
Now Bibbs, like many another proud spirit, had enjoyed the noble
pleasure of refusing, which is only felt when you have full power to
comply. When you are forced to refuse through weakness, it is very
galling to a monarch, or even to one of us.
"A d--d bad boy!" he exclaimed, and as if the truth would out in spite
of him he muttered: "It's all thro' that Liberal Government."
The house to which King Bibbs had directed the cabman to drive him, was
what is now called a villa. It was one of a row, and was certainly not
at all suggestive of a palace. Still it had a nice breakfast-parlour
underground, and a handsome little drawing-room, with folding doors,
upstairs. The rent was low, and the neighbourhood was considered, by
those who lived there, fashionable.
At first poor Bibbs was treated with some respect, but after a time he
fell into contempt, for kings, like other people, must keep their
places.
On arriving at his house the king stepped from the cab and took out his
purse. It would have done any Liberal Government good to see a
constitutional monarch like Bibbs rubbing the edges of certain light
coins to see if they were threepennies or fourpennies. But it would not
have done any one good to see the look on the cabman's face as he
received his fare. The king turned to go indoors.
"Here, hi!" shouted the cabman.
"What's the matter?" asked the king.
"What's the matter? As if your most gracious Majesty did not know! I
want another sixpence."
"You've got your fare," said the king.
"Got my fare!" retorted the cabman; "you're a pretty gracious Majesty,
you are. You go about rolling in luxury and wealth out of the hard
earnings of sich as me, and that's the way you use the money. Bah! The
sooner you're done away with altogether the better. What good are you?
Why you ain't worth the crown on your head."
The cabman drove away to swear, and the king paused to reflect. It took
the king some time to calculate, but he found he cost that cabman, at
his present rate of expenditure--he cost that cabman about an eighth of
a farthing every ten years.
The king's lips moved, though he breathed no word; but any one who had
watched the kind mouth would have seen that he was muttering something
about that Liberal Government.
He took out his latch-key and let himself in; he paused in the passage,
gently wiped his crown on the sleeve of his robe, and hung it on a
hat-peg, and, placing his sceptre in the stand beside his forgotten
umbrella--forgetfulness that had cost him a shilling--walked slowly into
the parlour.
He sat down to meditate. You have only to read your Shakespeare to know
this is the way of kings. He soliloquised somewhat in this fashion:
"It's quite clear the cheaper I get the more useless I appear. While I
was surrounded with pomp, the people ran after and applauded me; now I
get abused by a low cabman. I was like a grand ruin: while the columns
stand, and the broken entablatures lie about in picturesque profusion,
it is visited, made pictures of, and admired. But take away the old
adornments, clear away the ground, and leave only a little pile of
useless earth to mark the spot, and Admiration and Wonder, as they turn
their backs on it, will soon find Respect at their heels--I see my
fate."
The king grew reckless, and ordered an egg for his tea.
You have only to read your poets, and you will see that these sudden
desperate acts foreshadow impending doom.
At the moment that Bibbs was wiping a small spot of egg from his beard,
his ministers were holding a cabinet council to determine what should be
their next move to keep up their popularity.
There was nothing to cut down but the places of themselves and their
friends and relations. That was out of the question. The labourer is
worthy of his hire, and they had laboured hard to get into their present
position.
How would it be if they determined that the king should no longer
receive any help from the State, but earn his own living? A little hard
work would be good for the king's constitution.
The idea was a popular one. It was carried out. But poor King Bibbs was
too old to work, so it occurred to one of the ministers, who knew a City
gentleman who had an ugly daughter that he wanted to marry to a person
of rank, that by his influence the poor king might be got into an
almshouse.
After some difficulty it was done, and his most gracious Majesty found
himself in possession of two small rooms and ten shillings a week.
Any reasonable old monarch, you would think, might have been very
comfortable under these circumstances, but wherever he turned he met
unfriendly glances. People said almshouses were meant for industrious
but unfortunate tradesmen and their wives, and not for bloated old
emperors and kings. Here was a monarch not only grinding them down with
taxation, but actually taking from them the just reward of virtuous old
age.
At last it happened that a shopkeeper died insolvent, and his aged widow
was destitute. There was nothing for it but to put her on the parish,
which would be an expense, or get her into an almshouse.
The matter touched the pockets of the parishioners, and you may be
pretty sure that soon a fine clamour was raised. What had the king done
to deserve charity? Nothing. Meetings were held, bundles of letters were
sent to the newspapers, and at last the influential City gentleman, who
meant to stand for the borough at the next election, was forced to turn
out King Bibbs or lose his popularity.
The influential gentleman assured his most gracious Majesty that he
turned him out with great reluctance.
What was to be done now? It was pretty clear that the king must go on
the parish. But what parish?
It mattered not where he had lived, he had never paid his rates, and not
a parish would have him. Vestries met and discussed the matter. It was
referred to committees, minutes were brought up and referred back again;
meantime poor Bibbs, who would not go in as a casual, was left, like old
Lear, to perish.
It is true that on the first night an old Chartist, who was once
imprisoned for treason, took pity on him, and gave him a bed, but when
the king found out who his benefactor was, his old pride arose within
him, and he turned away.
His most gracious Majesty might have been seen feeling with his
thumb-nail the edge of his last coin. It was smooth; King Bibbs had but
threepence in the world.
At this moment he saw some men with advertising boards on their backs.
He looked at them; they were old and feeble. Ah! thought the king, I
think I am strong enough to carry boards. He went up to one of the men,
and asked him most respectfully where he got his employment.
The man turned round and sneered out,--
"Oh, you want to rob _us_ now, do you? You want to take the crust out of
our mouths. You ain't content with grinding _us_ poor working men down
with taxes--you ain't content with having every luxury down to
almhouses, but you must interfere with _us_. If I catch your most
gracious Majesty with _half_ a board on your back, I'll just smash you.
There!"
It will be observed that the people had lost nothing of the outward show
of respect, and always addressed the king in the proper way.
Poor Bibbs bought a penny biscuit, and with the remaining twopence a
piece of card and a bit of string. He wrote on the card,
"PRAY PITY A POOR CONSTITUTIONAL MONARCH."
And with his crown in his hand to get whatever charity would give, he
went into the bitter world to beg his way down to the grave.
* * * * *
Things went on merrily with the ministry for years. They filled all the
old places and invented new. They put the king's head on the coin, and
put the coin in their pockets.
But one fine day a certain Eastern despot with whom they had been
intriguing, thought it a politic thing to pay King Bibbs a visit IN
STATE. Here was a pretty kettle of fish! What were they to do for a
king?
It would never do to tell the Eastern despot they didn't know where
their king was, and they did not care; he would have broken with them at
once.
They sent in all directions to inquire for the king, but he was not to
be found.
They then tried an advertisement:--
IF THIS SHOULD MEET THE EYE OF KING BIBBS,
he is requested to return to his disconsolate ministers, and
all shall be forgiven.
But poor Bibbs had not seen a newspaper for years, and his ministers
were left disconsolate.
Then appeared another advertisement:--
LOST, A KING ANSWERING TO THE NAME OF BIBBS.
If any one will take him to the Treasury he will be _liberally_
rewarded.
Now it so happened that a quiet man of business, as he was passing along
a country highway, saw a poor old half crazy man eating a few dry
crusts. By his side was a bent sceptre, and on his head an old and
battered crown, while his robe of royal purple was torn and soiled, and
the ermine on it worn nearly bare and black.
As the stranger approached him, the old man took off his crown, and in a
feeble voice said, "Pray pity a poor constitutional monarch."
The stranger looked in his face and exclaimed, "Good heaven, poor soul,
what has brought you to this?"
The old man brushed a tear away from his sunken eye, and muttered--
"It was all through that Liberal Government!"
* * * * *
A week after a great city was all aglare with flags, and ablare with
trumpets. The streets were lined with people, and a procession passed,
at the head of which was a grand carriage drawn by eight horses. In the
carriage sat a feeble old man in a splendid robe, and with a new crown
that he kept taking off as he bowed to the multitude. At his side was
the splendid Eastern despot, who bowed too, for the people not only said
"Long live King Bibbs!" but they wished the splendid Eastern despot long
life as well. Near the palace gates as they returned, the king left off
bowing, and some were shocked at his pride and some at his pallor.
A few days after there was a grand and solemn procession.
And again, a few days after that, a grand and glorious procession.
* * * * *
The Government were true to their policy, and the wording of their
advertisement. The stranger who had found King Bibbs, after wasting
years in applications, received a note to say his affair was under
consideration.
(_By permission of the Author._)
MOLLY MULDOON.
ANONYMOUS.
Molly Muldoon was an Irish girl,
And as fine a one
As you'd look upon
In the cot of a peasant or hall of an earl.
Her teeth were white, though not of pearl,--
And dark was her hair, but it did not curl;
Yet few who gazed on her teeth and her hair,
But owned that a power of beauty was there.
Now many a hearty and rattling gorsoon
Whose fancy had charmed his heart into tune,
Would dare to approach fair Molly Muldoon,
But for _that_ in her eye
Which made most of them shy
And look quite ashamed, though they couldn't tell why--
Her eyes were large, dark blue, and clear,
And _heart_ and _mind_ seemed in them blended.
If _intellect_ sent you one look severe
_Love_ instantly leapt in the next to mend it--
Hers was the eye to check the rude,
And hers the eye to stir emotion,
To keep the sense and soul subdued
And calm desire into devotion.
There was Jemmy O'Hare,
As fine a boy as you'd see in a fair,
And wherever Molly was he was there.
His face was round and his build was square,
And he sported as rare
And tight a pair
Of legs, to be sure, as are found anywhere.
And Jemmy would wear
His _caubeen_ and hair
With such a peculiar and rollicking air,
That I'd venture to swear
Not a girl in Kildare
Nor Victoria's self, if she chanced to be there,
Could resist his wild way--called "Devil-may-care."
Not a boy in the parish could match him for fun,
Nor wrestle, nor leap, nor hurl, nor run
With Jemmy--No gorsoon could equal him--None,
At wake, or at wedding, at feast or at fight,
At throwing the sledge with such dext'rous sleight,--
He was the envy of men, and the women's delight.
Now Molly Muldoon liked Jemmy O'Hare,
And in troth Jemmy loved in his heart Miss Muldoon.
I believe in my conscience a purtier pair
Never danced in a tent at a pattern in June,--
To a bagpipe or fiddle
On the rough cabin door
That is placed in the middle--
Ye may talk as ye will
There's a grace in the limbs of the peasantry there
With which people of quality couldn't compare;
And Molly and Jemmy were counted the two
That would keep up the longest and go the best through
All the jigs and the reels
That have occupied heels
Since the days of the Murtaghs and Brian Boru.
It was on a long bright sunny day
They sat on a green knoll side by side,
But neither just then had much to say;
Their hearts were so full that they only tried
To do anything foolish, just to hide
What both of them felt, but what Molly denied.
They plucked the speckled daisies that grew
Close by their arms,--then tore them too;
And the bright little leaves that they broke from the stalk
They threw at each other for want of talk;
While the heart-lit look and the sunny smile
Reflected pure souls without art or guile,
And every time Molly sighed or smiled,
Jem felt himself grow as soft as a child;
And he fancied the sky never looked so bright,
The grass so green, the daisies so white;
Everything looked so gay in his sight
That gladly he'd linger to watch them till night,--
And Molly herself thought each little bird
Whose warbling notes her calm soul stirred,--
Sang only his lay but by her to be heard.
An Irish courtship's short and sweet,
It's sometimes foolish and indiscreet;
But who is wise when his young heart's heat
Whips the pulse to a galloping beat--
Ties up his judgment neck and feet
And makes him the slave of a blind conceit?
Sneer not, therefore, at the loves of the poor,
Though their manners be rude their affections are pure;
They look not by art, and they love not by rule,
For their souls are not tempered in fashion's cold school.
Oh! give me the love that endures no control
But the delicate instinct that springs from the soul,
As the mountain stream gushes its freshness and force,
Yet obedient, wherever it flows to its source.
Yes, give me that but Nature has taught,
By rank unallured and by riches unbought;
Whose very simplicity keeps it secure--
The love that illumines the heart of the poor.
All blushful was Molly, or shy at least
As one week before Lent
Jem procured her consent
To go the next Sunday and spake to the priest,
Shrove-Tuesday was named for the wedding to be,
And it dawned as bright as they'd wish to see.
And Jemmy was up at the day's first peep
For the live-long night, no wink could he sleep;
A bran-new coat, with a bright big button,
He took from a chest, and carefully put on--
And brogues as well _lampblacked_ as ever went foot on
Were greased with the fat of _a quare sort of mutton_!
Then a tidier _gorsoon_ couldn't be seen
Treading the Emerald sod so green--
Light was his step and bright was his eye
As he walked through the _slobbery_ streets of Athy.
And each girl he passed, bid "God bless him," and sighed,
While she wished in her heart that herself was the bride.
Hush! here's the Priest--let not the least
Whisper be heard till the father has ceased.
"Come, bridegroom and bride,
That the knot may be tied
Which no power upon earth can hereafter divide."
Up rose the bride, and the bridegroom too,
And a passage was made for them both to walk through!
And his Rev'rence stood with a sanctified face,
Which spread its infection around the place.
The bridesmaid bustled and whispered the bride,
Who felt so confused that she almost cried,
But at last bore up and walked forward, where
The Father was standing with solemn air;
The bridegroom was following after with pride,
_When his piercing eye something awful espied_!
He stooped and sighed,
Looked round and tried
To tell what he saw, but his tongue denied:
With a spring and a roar,
He jumped to the door,
AND THE BRIDE LAID HER EYES ON THE BRIDEGROOM NO MORE!
Some years sped on
Yet heard no one
Of Jemmy O'Hare, or where he had gone.
But since the night of that widowed feast,
The strength of poor Molly had ever decreased;
Till, at length, from earth's sorrow her soul released,
Fled up to be ranked with the saints at least.
And the morning poor Molly to live had ceased,
Just five years after the widowed feast,
An American letter was brought to the priest,
Telling of Jemmy O'Hare deceased!
Who ere his death,
With his latest breath,
To a spiritual father unburdened his breast
And the cause of his sudden departure confest,--
"Oh! Father," says he, "I've not long to live,
So I'll freely confess, and hope you'll forgive--
That same Molly Muldoon, sure I loved her indeed;
Ay, as well, as the Creed
That was never forsaken by one of my breed;
But I couldn't have married her after I saw"--
"Saw what?" cried the Father desirous to hear--
And the chair that he sat in unconsciously rocking--
"Not in her 'karacter,' yer Rev'rince, a flaw"--
The sick man here dropped a significant tear
And died as he whispered in the clergyman's ear--
"But I saw, God forgive her, A HOLE IN HER STOCKING!"
THE HARMONIOUS LOBSTERS.
ROBERT REECE.
It has always appeared to me as a remarkable fact that the practice of
Music does not promote amongst its devotees the harmony which is its own
very gist and soul. The "concord of sweet sounds" is not reflected in
the good fellowship and friendly cohesion of musicians; and the
spiritualising power of the divine art seems too often to evaporate with
the notes produced, and leave with its professors the hard _residuum_ of
an exact science and a mechanical art.
The rivalry and jealousy so noticeable amongst musical people is
peculiar to them; and, though you may with impunity neglect to demand
from the actors, poets, painters, sculptors, preachers, physicians,
surgeons, or lawyers an exhibition of their skill in their respective
arts, you will make a foe for life if you omit to ask the musician to
perform.
We all know the "musical people" at parties; how cordially we welcome
the production of that fatal waterproof roll, with its diabolical
contents of "pieces" and "ballads;" how enthusiastically we press Jones
to "give us another song," and how cheerfully and promptly (I might
almost say "hastily") Jones obliges us. It is of no use suggesting to
Miss Robinson that you "are afraid you are taxing her too far." Miss
Robinson has another ballad, or another "piece"--"Tricklings at Eve," or
"Wobblings at Noon," ready for you.
I have belonged to several musical clubs in my time, and know something
of my subject, especially the amateur section of it. I once officiated
at a professional gathering to the great hurt of a very kind man. I was
invited by a genial music publisher to join a "professional dinner"
which he gave yearly to the principal musicians, his very good friends.
The profession mustered very strongly, and did ample justice to
excellent fare; on our repairing to the drawing-room, I expected, of
course, to be entertained with some really good music, but I found that
no one would "start the ball."
In the full glare of professional eyes I opened the piano and the
proceedings myself. Before I had played forty bars every "professional"
was making for the instrument. I concluded. I had "started the ball," or
rather a musical "boomerang," which was to return viciously upon me and
my host.
Every man present held the pianoforte in turn, and at half-past two in
the morning (_I_ had commenced at ten in the evening), there were still
some unwearied musicians insisting on playing their own compositions to
unappreciative audiences of rival professors. Perhaps they are still
playing. I never did any business with that music publisher again.
Years ago I belonged to an amateur musical society which had its being
in a fashionable suburb, and was known by the felicitous title, "The
Harmonious Lobsters." To account for this name I may state that the
society owed its origin to certain jovial meetings held at a friend's
chambers, where these succulent _crustacea_ were discussed (to soft
music) at supper, twice a month. As the club grew, the suppers deceased;
and, as the society became important and pretentious, so the original
joviality evaporated.
"The Harmonious Lobsters" were as pleasant amongst themselves as the
genuine uncooked articles are in a fishmonger's basket. Every member
struggled to be "top-sawyer;" every artist, down to the little doctor
who played the triangle regarded himself as the mainstay, sole prop, and
presiding genius of the society.
We mustered a small orchestra, consisting of two flutes, two cornets,
two violins, one viola, one violoncello, a drum, a clarionet, and the
triangle above mentioned.
The performances of this "limited band" were more remarkable for their
force than their precision; and a want of "tone" and completeness was
the result of an endeavour on the part of each performer to make the
instrument he played specially conspicuous. It didn't matter so much
with the flutes, violins, and clarionet; but the two cornets were a
serious nuisance.
Gasper and Puffin (both "first" cornets, of course!) were deadly rivals,
implacable foes. Each aspired to be the ruler of the club, each regarded
himself as _the_ performer _par excellence_. The flutes were not
friendly, and the violoncello was crabbed and unpleasant, but those
cornets were insufferable.
We all felt that a crisis was at hand, and we all devoutly wished it;
for while Puffin and Gasper asserted themselves, we others were, to a
defined extent, hiding our light under a bushel.
The catastrophe was foreshadowed by a stormy meeting convened to arrange
the programme of our fourth and last annual concert.
"Of course," premised the First Violin, who was also Secretary and
Librarian, "we have all a solo!"
There was no doubt of _that_, except as regarded the "doubles," viz.,
the two flutes and the two cornets. The first couple had so far
coalesced as to submit to the prowess being displayed in a duet, which
was destined to be less flute than elaborate flatulence.
"Let's begin at the beginning," said Gasper. "No. 1: that's an overture
for _tutti_; say, 'The Caliph of Bagdad.'"
"_I_ don't mind," responded the Secretary. "It's easy enough, and
there's lots of show for the violins."
"The question now arises," jerked in Puffin, "who is to be the _first_
soloist? _I_ won't."
"Nor likely to be," sneered Gasper.
"I understand your narrow-mindedness, Gasper," retorted Puffin; "but I
shall choose my own place and my own solo."
"So shall _I_," announced Gasper; "go on."
The Secretary proceeded.
"Shall we say: SOLO (_Clarionet_)--Mr. R. Lipsey."
"Anything for a quiet life," said Lipsey. "_I_'m not afraid."
So it went on for four more items, when it became obvious that the "best
place," in the first part of the programme was open to competition.
"_My_ solo," said Gasper, "comes in here."
"Thank you," replied Puffin; "I claim it myself."
"_Do_ you?" grinned Gasper; "I stick to this point."
"So do _I_," said the undaunted Puffin.
"No, but really, you know," argued the Secretary, "it must be settled:
let _me_ cut the knot. _I_'ll play _my_ solo here."
A howl of opposition now arose. Every performer, exclusive of the Drum
and the Triangle, had decided to "go in" for the "show place" in the
programme.
"I leave the Society if I do not play my solo here," said Gasper. "I
have no more to say!" and he sat down.
"So do _I_," echoed Puffin, "and get on with 'The Caliph' if you can
without a second cornet."
This was clinching matters with a vengeance.
"Look here," interposed the Doctor. "_I_ don't play a solo, so I speak
impartially, I hope. Let Gasper play his solo in _this_ part, and Puffin
_his_ solo in the best place of the _second_ part of the programme.
That'll settle it."
There was a tumult immediately; everybody seemed to be multiplied by
ten.
"Don't be a fool," whispered the Doctor to Gasper. "Stick to your right
place in the first part; all the swells look for _that_. They'll be gone
before Puffin gets _his_ turn."
Gasper was quiet in a moment.
The Doctor, winking at me, got hold of the stony but still excited
Puffin.
"Let him have his blessed solo _early_, my boy," said the Triangle. "The
big people won't have taken their seats by then. You'll have it all your
own way."