_Country Cousin._—"Well, Tom, my boy, where be'est thee a-lodging noo?"
_Surveyor (pointing up to the top of St. Paul's)._—"Why, I hang out
there at present. Whenever you are passing my way, I shall be delighted
to see you, if you will give me a drop in."
[Illustration]
THE SONG OF THE KNOCKER.
(A COMPANION TO SCHILLER'S BELL.)
Gents Provoko, Portas Bango, Somnia Frango.
_Firmly screw'd upon the door
Doth the lion-knocker frown.
To-night its reign of noise is o'er;
Courage! boys; we'll have it down!
Long its strength defied
Every dodge we tried;
But its nuts no more shall bear it,
From the hinge to-night we'll tear it._
Varied parts of good and ill
It has been its lot to fill.
Many hearts within have bounded
As the postman's knock has sounded.
Cheek has flushed, and pulse has fluttered,
When the written name was uttered.
It might be from one most dear,
Though far off, yet ever near;
Or from one in hopes "you will
Think about his little bill;"
Or a letter overland,
Sent from Ramjamjellyland,
Telling how the ardent Coolies
Had well thrashed the crafty Foolies;
Or a dinner invitation,
Or a Frankfort speculation,
Or a life association,
Or some hints on emigration,
Or a looked-for explanation
Of a former altercation;
Retail changes lately made
In some wine and spirit trade;
Vows, professions, gift, or token,
Promises, or kept or broken:
Each and all, with double din,
Has the knocker usher'd in.
[Illustration]
_At the corner place a scout,
For the vigilant police;
Let him keep a sharp look-out,
And, if need be, break the peace.
From the stone-jug free
Must our party be,
Though we keep so by a fight,
Or a witch-like flight by night._
He who knocks and runs away,
May live to knock another day.
Let caution, then, all mischief guide,
For fear some danger should betide.
With watchful eyes the boys advance,
Accomplishing a nigger dance,
Performed upon the paving-stones,
To sound of Ethiopian bones,
With air appropriate, from their store,
Of "Who dat knockin' at de door?"
Now, as they near the destined sill,
Hush'd are bones—the dance is still.
One mighty BANG! the servant scares,
And lifts the inmates from their chairs.
Away! Away! not one remains
When the sold maid the passage gains,
And, as the neighbourhood they quit,
Agree their knock has prov'd a hit.
_Hush! keep back! your chaffing cease,
Some one's steps are this way bent.
Is it one of the police?
No, 'tis but a tipsy gent,
Singing some night-song
As he reels along.
Now he turns the corner humming
That there is "A good time coming."_
[Illustration]
The straw is lying in the square,
And cabs go by with muffled sound;
Whilst cautious hands no longer dare
To lift the knocker—leather bound.
Through the night
Burns a light
From the bedroom window's height,
As the angel of grim death
Hovers there on dusky wings,
To wait the passing breath
Quiv'ring through life's curdled springs.
Go, the mutes and mourners call,
Plumed hearse and heavy pall!
Head of that sad family
Tenant of the tomb shall be
Ere the ghastly week is o'er,
And the knocker sounds once more.
_See! the thoroughfare is clear,
Nothing in it but the lamps.
Now, look sharp! the door draw near,
Wrench the knocker from its clamps_
_Does it still resist?
Give a tougher twist.
Put your stick within the ring.
Now—with both hands—that's the thing!_
[Illustration]
The sun is shining in the street,
The clock moves on from three to five.
The pavement glows with dazzling heat,
And all the West-end is alive.
The air with Bouquet-Royal laden,
Or Patchouli's oppressive herb,
Plays round the fair-haired high-born maiden,
Whose Clarence draws up at the kerb.
And now the knocker knows no quiet,
But revels in unceasing riot.
The flunkey first awakes the clang
With "_Rat-a-tat-tat, bang! bang!! bang!!!_"
The doctor greater care observes,
With temper'd knock for shaken nerves.
Next small tat-tat from frightened fingers
Of one in seedy black, who lingers
In fear and trembling at the door,
Before he dares to knock once more.
Professor he, of light guitar,
Or Polish master from afar,
Or poor relation come to claim
Some small aid due to blood and name.
All sorts of objects come and go,
Like some phantasmagoric show.
Patron or beggar, great or small,
The knocker is a lift to all.
_Hip! huzza! my artful dodgers,
It has fallen from the door.
But the noise has roused the lodgers,
Lights appear at every floor._
_If we stay we're done—
Vanish, every one!
As the poet sings, like bricks,
Cut your luckies and your sticks._
[Illustration]
Those evening knocks! those evening knocks!
That herald in a paper box,
Which merchants leave with pens and soap;
And notes in which they humbly hope
You'll patronize the speculation,
And save their household from starvation—
Which if to do you're kindly willing,
They'll call to-morrow for the shilling.
_Joy! joy! joy! we're safe at last.
Where's the latch-key? Stand aside.
Luck be praised, the peril's past,
And we can our trophy hide!
Wasn't it a lark?
Hold hard, in the dark,
And the chairs and tables mind,
Till the lucifers I find._
[Illustration]
——In! in with me,
Comrades all, and shut the door,
We will christen it once more.
STUNNER shall its new name be,
Trophy of our bravery!
Now we have in state enthroned it,
Drink the healths of those who own'd it,
Whom we've left, by sad mishap,
Really not worth a rap!
Now the festival begin:
Ope the oysters—Where's the gin?
From the closet have it out.
Here's the corkscrew—pass the stout.
Cruets, pickles, gin and water,
Bread, meat, butter, pipes, and porter,
On the table now we see;
Fastest of the fast we'll be.
Governors and landlord scorning,
We will not go home till morning!
[Illustration]
RULES AND REGULATIONS FOR THE CONDUCT OF
STRANGERS VISITING LONDON.
If your health is proposed, you must say it is the proudest moment of
your life.
You are not expected to take your hat in with you to dinner. It is
liable to be kicked about if you put it under the table—people mistake
it for the cat.
It is no longer the fashion to say, "Here's to you, miss," and "I drink
to you, ma'am," to every lady round the table before you take a glass of
wine; however, if you do it once, never repeat it.
When you begin a speech, you must be sure to state you are unaccustomed
to public speaking.
Take your coat off in the hall, but never give up your umbrella. If the
servant offers to take it down stairs to dry it, tell him to mind his
own business; and if he says another word, threaten to report him to his
missus, and he will soon be quiet. The robberies of umbrellas in London
is something awful!
[Illustration:
A University Chair of Music.
]
If you go to the opera don't call out for "Music!" or tell "Nosey," or
any of the "catgut scrapers," to strike up. Be careful also not to
insult the box-keeper, by giving him a penny to run and fetch a
playbill. If you take a lady, dispense with the usual gallantry of a bag
of oranges. Should you take any, however, it is usual to offer them to
all the ladies round you—after you have peeled them.
It is no longer the fashion for a stranger to call at Buckingham Palace;
but if there should be a Drawing Room, you had better go, by all means,
and present your homage to your Sovereign, for otherwise it might look
disrespectful. You have only to go in costume, with the sword and cocked
hat, and send in your card, "with your compliments."
If you are invited out to dinner, you must refrain as much as you can
from taking a snooze directly the cloth is removed; and you should be
above drinking the warm water that is given you, in a blue bowl, for
your fingers.
If you intend to dance, do not, as a matter of pride, fill your pockets
with halfpence; and if you have a new pair of Berlins, put them on, and
do not keep them folded up in your hands, as if you were too shabby to
use them.
If Joseph Ady sends you an invitation, write back word that you will
come and take tea with him. You will find him a good sovereign fellow,
and you may probably hear of something to your advantage.
[Illustration:
Shakspeare, after Curling.
]
Have your hair curled; but if you take a lady down to the
refreshment-room, you must know her extremely well before you can
presume to ask her if "she'll have a drop of beer," or else she will
certainly be offended.
When you are leaving, supposing the servant at the door puts his hand
out, shake it by all means, or else the poor fellow will fancy you are
proud.
You are not bound to answer any public questions in the street, as to
"Who are you?" or to put any stranger in possession of personal facts
relating to "your mother."
If you are in doubt about a cab fare, or want to know some particular
fact about the twopenny omnibuses, or the age of an actress, or a point
at cribbage, or where the best glass of ale is to be had—write to the
Duke of Wellington, and you will have an answer from the F. M. the same
day.
You are not bound to go to every theatre, or to see every exhibition in
London. In fact, please yourself, and do not stop in town a day longer
than you choose; for you will find the "boots" generally very reluctant
to call you the morning you intend to start. For better precaution, you
had better shave over night, and tie a piece of string to your big toe
for the policeman to pull the first thing in the morning.
[Illustration: T]
THE DOMESTIC MANNERS AND
CUSTOMS OF THE BEDOUIN
ARABS.
BY ONE WHO HAS NEVER BEEN AMONGST
THEM, BUT CAN IMAGINE EXACTLY WHAT
THEY ARE.
Those Bedouins are curious fellows. You have heard of a race of Jumpers;
well, they are a nation of Leapers. We walk, they fly. They are the bats
of the human race—not men, and decidedly not angels, but something
between the two.
Their houses have no windows lower than the third floor. This is to
prevent little boys jumping up. Their windows are not arranged like
ours, but have small apertures, like the slits in letter-boxes, slanting
downwards, to prevent any one looking into them. Bricks are exceedingly
dear, on account of the height of the walls.
A military review of Bedouin Arabs exceeds anything of the sort. At a
given signal a whole battalion springs upwards, gets inextricably
mingled in one dense flying column, and then falls down again, each man
precisely in his previous position. They discharge their muskets when
they reach a given height, and no accident ever occurs, unless a raw
recruit happens to have sprained his ankle. Some of their light columns
advance twelve feet deep; when I say twelve feet deep, of course I mean
in the air.
[Illustration:
_The Monster Sweeps_
"A Toss up for the Derby".
]
It is curious to see them in the streets. If the door is not open, they
will take a flying leap through the window, like a harlequin. The first
sign of intelligence a Bedouin child gives, is to leap straight out of
its cradle. A lid is always placed over it, for the purpose of keeping
it down; and when the lid is taken off the child flies out, like a
living Jack-in-the-Box.
A steeplechase is with them literally a steeplechase. They have no
horses, but clear churches, pillars, obelisks, everything that comes in
their way, on foot.
Their animals have, in a smaller degree, the same agile propensities.
When two cats dart up into the air, fighting, they are soon lost in the
clouds, and you will hear them mollrowing above you for a long time; but
I defy you to say, you ever saw _both_ of them come back.
When the Bedouins go out shooting they pursue the game in the air, and
do not fire until they are right over the bird's back. It is a mean
sport, however, which a real Bedouin gentleman is above doing. But their
children catch sparrows easily, by putting salt upon their tails.
A Bedouin Arab does not give his hand in marriage, but his foot.
The Sheik blesses his people once a year. He springs from his balcony,
and when he has reached the centre of the populace, he gives his
blessing, so that he may fall equally on the heads of all his subjects;
and then he springs back to his balcony, and the ceremony is concluded.
One poor Sheik (Ben Allah Wishi Washi) had the gout, and could not do
this. He tried to bless them in a balloon once, but the enraged populace
would not have it, and tore it to pieces, amid loud cries of "Shame!" He
was sentenced to wear tight boots for life—the most ignominious
punishment that can be put upon one of Bedouin extraction.
Their postmen are let off from the post-office like pigeons—they drop
the letters down the chimneys.
[Illustration: