Part 3

_You_ never had a dozen wives— Of course not—so you cannot know The grave discomfort in their lives These Pashas sometimes undergo.

Abdulla Bey, however, _he_ Was not the one to be dismayed, And doubtless you'll astounded be To hear what wisdom he displayed.

He did not—as some would have done— Seek angry ladies to coerce; He did not use to any one Expressions impolite—or worse.

No, what he did was simply this: He stood those ladies in a row, And said, "My dears, don't take amiss What I'm about to say, you know.

"I find you cannot, like the birds, Within your little nest agree, So I'll unfold, in briefest words, A plan which has occurred to me.

"These quarrellings, these manners lax, In comfort means a loss for us, So I must tie you up in sacks And throw you in the Bosphorus."

He tied them up; he threw them in; Then Pasha Bey, I beg to state, Did _not_ seek sympathy to win By posing as disconsolate.

He mourned a week; and then, they say (A Pasha is, of course, a catch), Our friend, the good Abdulla Bey, Got married to another batch.

XIII. THAT OF ALGERNON CROKER.

Permit me, and I will quite briefly relate The sad story of Algernon Croker. Take warning, good friends, and beware of the fate Of this asinine practical joker, Who early in life caused the keenest distress To his uncle, Sir Barnaby Tatton, By affixing a pin in the form of an S To the chair which Sir Barnaby sat on.

His uncle had often been heard to declare That to make him his heir he was willing; But the point of _this_ joke made Sir Barnaby swear That he'd cut the boy off with a shilling. Their anger his parents took means to express, Tho' I may not, of course, be exact on The particular spot—though you'll probably guess— That young Croker was properly whacked on.

His pranks, when they presently sent him to school, Resulted in endless disasters, And final expulsion for playing the fool (He made "apple-pie" beds for the masters). Nor was he more fortunate later in life, When courting a lady at Woking; For he failed to secure this sweet girl for his wife On account of his practical joking.

To her father—a person of eighteen-stone-two, In a round-about coat and a topper— He offered a seat; then the chair he withdrew, And, of course, the old chap came a cropper. Such conduct, the father exceedingly hurt, And he wouldn't consent to the marriage; So the daughter she married a person named Birt, And she rides to this day in her carriage.

But these are mere trifles compared with the fate Which o'ertook him, and which I'm recalling, When he ventured to joke with an old Potentate, With results which were simply appalling. 'Twas in some foreign country, far over the sea, Where he held a small post ministerial (An Ambassador, Consul, or _something_ was he. _What_ exactly is quite immaterial).

He told the old Potentate, much to his joy, That King Edward had sent him a present, And handed a parcel up to the old boy, With a smile which was childlike and pleasant. The Potentate he, at the deuce of a pace, At the string set to fumbling and maulin'; Then Croker laughed madly to see his blank face— For the package had nothing at all in.

The Potentate smiled—'twas a sad, sickly smile; And he laughed—but the laughter was hollow. "Ha! a capital joke. It doth greatly beguile; But," said he, "there is something to follow. I, too, wish to play a small joke of my own, At the which I'm remarkably clever." Then,—a man standing by, at a nod from the throne, Croker's head from his body did sever.

XIV. THAT OF——?

Phwat's thot yer afther sayin'— Oi "don't look meself at all?" Och, murder! sure ye've guessed it. _Whist!_ Oi'm _not_ meself at all, But another man entoirly, An' Oi'd bether tell ye trooly How ut iz Oi'm but _purtendin'_ That Oi'm Mr. Pat O'Dooley.

Tim Finnegan an' me, sor, Waz a-fightin ov the blacks In hathen foreign parts, sor, An' yer pardon Oi would ax If Oi mention thot the customs In them parts iz free an' aisy, An' the costooms—bein' mostly beads— Iz airy-loike an' braizy.

But them blacks iz good at fightin' An' they captured me an' Tim; An' they marched us back in triumph To their village—me an' him; An' they didn't trate us badly, As Oi'm not above confessin', Tho' their manners—as Oi said before— An' customs, waz disthressin'.

So Oi set meself to teachin' The King's daughter to behave As a perfect lady should do; An' Oi taught the King to shave; An' Oi added to the lady's Scanty costoom by the prisent Ov a waistcoat, which she thanked me for, A-smilin' moighty plisent.

Now she wazn't bad to look at, An' she fell in love with me, Which was awkward for all parties, As you prisently will see; For on wan noight, when the village Waz all quiet-loike an' slapin', The King's daughter to the hut, phwere Tim an' me lay, came a-crapin'.

An' she whispered in my ear, sor: "Get up quick, an' come this way, Oi'll assist ye in escapin', If ye'll do just phwat Oi say." An' she led me by the hand, sor; It waz dark, the rain was pourin' An' we safely passed the huts, sor, Phwere the sintrys waz a snorin'

Then we ran, an' ran, an' ran, sor, Through all the blessid noight, An' waz many miles away, sor, Before the day was loight. Then the lady saw my features, An' she stopped an' started cryin', For she found that _I_ waz _Tim_ instead Ov me, which waz _most_ tryin'.

In the hurry an' the scurry Ov the darkness, don't yez see, She had made a big mistake, _An' rescued_ him _instead ov_ me— An' to me it waz confusin' An' most hard ov realizin'; For to find yerself _another_ person, Sor, iz most surprisin'.

An' pwhen the lady left me, An' Oi'd got down to the shore An' found a ship to take me home, Oi puzzled more an' more, For, ov course, the woife an' family Ov Finnegan's was moine, sor, Tho' Oi didn't know the wan ov 'em By hook, nor crook, nor soign, sor.

But Oi came to the decision They belonged to me no doubt, So directly Oi had landed Oi began to look about. Tim Finnegan had told me That he lived up in Killarn'y, An' Oi found meself that far, somehow, By carnying an' blarney.

_An'_ Oi found me woife an' family— But, ach! upon my loife Oi waz greatly disappointed In my family an' woife, For my woife was _not_ a beauty, An' her temper wazn't cheerin' While the family—onkindly— At their father took to jeerin'.

"Oi waz better off as Pat," thought Oi, "Than Oi'll _iver_ be as Tim. Bedad! Oi'd better be _meself_ An' lave off bein' him. Oi won't stay here in Killarn'y, Phwere they trate poor Tim so coolly, But purtend to be meself agin In dear old Ballyhooley.'

So Oi came to Ballyhooley, An' Oi've niver told before To anyone the story Oi've been tellin' to ye, sor, An' it, all ov it, occurred, sor, Just exactly as Oi state it, Though, ov course, ye'll understand, sor, Oi don't wish ye to repate it.

XV. THAT OF THE RIVAL HAIRDRESSERS.

In the fashionable quarter Of a fashionable town Lived a fashionable barber, And his name was Mister Brown. Of hair, the most luxuriant, This person had a crop, And—a—so had his assistants, And—the boy who swept the shop.

He had pleasant manners—very— And his smile was very bland, While his flow of conversation Was exceptionally grand. The difficulty was that he Did _not_ know when to stop; Neither did his good assistants, Nor—the boy who swept the shop.

He'd begin about the weather, And remark the day was fine, Or, perhaps, "it would be brighter If the sun would only shine." Or, he'd "noticed the barometer Had fallen with a flop; And—a—so had his assistants, And—the boy who swept the shop."

Then the news from all the papers (Most of which you'd heard before) He would enter into fully, And the latest cricket score; Or, political opinions, He'd be pleased with you to swop; And—a—so would his assistants, Or—the boy who swept the shop.

At the Stock Exchange quotations Mister Brown was quite _au fait_, And on betting, or "the fav'rit'," He would talk in knowing way; Then into matters personal He'd occasionally drop, And—a—so would his assistants, Or—the boy who swept the shop.

He'd recommend Macassar oil, Or someone's brilliantine, As "a remedy for baldness." 'Twas "the finest he had seen." And he'd "noticed that your hair of late Was thinning on the top." And—a—"so had his assistants, And—the boy who swept the shop."

Now one day, nearly opposite, Another barber came, And opened an establishment With quite another name. And Brown looked out and wondered If this man had come to stop. And—a—so did his assistants, And—the boy who swept the shop.

But they didn't fear their neighbour, For the man seemed very meek. _He'd_ no flow of conversation, And looked half afraid to speak. So Brown tittered at his rival (Whose name happened to be Knopp); And—a—so did his assistants, And—the boy who swept the shop.

But somehow unaccountably Brown's custom seemed to flow In some mysterious sort of way To Knopp's. It _was_ a blow. And Brown looked very serious To see his profits drop. And—a—so did his assistants And—the boy who swept the shop.

And I wondered, and I wondered Why this falling off should be, And I thought one day I'd step across To Mister Knopp's to see. I found him _very_ busy With—in fact—no time to stop, And—a—so were _his_ assistants. And—the boy who swept _his_ shop.

Mister Knopp was very silent, His assistants still as mice; _All_ the customers were smiling, And one whispered, "Ain't it nice?" "Hey? You want to know the reason? Why, _deaf and dumb is Knopp_, And—a—_so are his assistants, And—the boy who sweeps the shop_."

XVI. THAT OF THE AUCTIONEER'S DREAM.

I'll proceed to the narration Of a trifling episode In the life of Mr. Platt, An auctioneer, Who was filled with jubilation And remarked: "Well, I'll be blowed!"— An expression rather im- Polite, I fear.

But he dreamt he'd heard it stated That, in future, auctioneers _Might include their near relations In their sales_; And he felt so much elated That he broke out into cheers, As one's apt to do when other Language fails.

And he thought: "Dear me, I'd better Seize this opportunity Of getting rid of ma-in-law, And Jane— (_'Twas his wife_)—I'll not regret her; And, indeed, it seems to me Such a chance may really not Occur again.

"And, indeed, while I'm about it, I'll dispense with all the lot— (O'er my family I've lately Lost command)— 'Tis the best plan, never doubt it. I'll dispose of those I've got, And, perhaps, I'll get some others Second-hand."

So his ma-in-law he offered As the first lot in the sale, And he knocked _her_ down for two- And-six, or less. Then Mrs. Platt he proffered— She was looking rather pale; But she fetched a good round sum, I must confess.

Sister Ann was slightly damaged, But she went off pretty well Considering her wooden leg, And that; But I can't think _how_ he managed His wife's grandmother to sell— But he did it. It was very smart Of Platt.

Several children, and the twins (Lots from 9 to 22), Fetched the auctioneer a tidy sum Between 'em. (One small boy had barked his shins, And a twin had lost one shoe, But they looked as well, Platt thought, as e'er He'd seen 'em.)

Then some nephews, and some nieces, Sundry uncles, and an aunt, Went off at figures which were Most surprising. And some odds and ends of pieces (I _would_ tell you, but I can't Their relationship) fetched prices Past surmising.

It is quite enough to mention That before the day was out _All_ his relatives had gone Without reserve. This fell in with Platt's intention, And he said: "Without a doubt, I shall now as happy be As I deserve."

But he _wasn't_ very happy, For he soon began to miss Mrs. Platt, his wife, and all The little "P's." And the servants made him snappy; Home was anything but bliss; And Mr. Platt was very Ill at ease.

So he calmly thought it over. "On the whole, perhaps," said he, I had better buy my fam- Ily again, For I find I'm not in clover, Quite, without my Mrs. P.— She was really not a bad sort, Wasn't Jane."

But the persons who had bought 'em Wouldn't part with 'em again. Though Platt offered for their purchase Untold gold. For quite priceless now he thought 'em, And, of course, could see quite plain That in selling them he had himself Been sold.

And he thought, with agitation Of them lost for ever now, And he said, "This thing has gone Beyond a joke," While the beads of perspiration Gathered thickly on his brow; And then Mr. Platt, the auctioneer— Awoke.

XVII. THAT OF THE PLAIN COOK.

Miss Miriam Briggs was a plain, plain cook, And her cooking was none too good (Not at all like the recipes out of the book, And, in fact, one might tell at the very first look That things hadn't been made as they should).

Her master, a person named Lymmington-Blake, At her cooking did constantly grieve, And at last he declared that "a change he must make," For he "wanted a cook who could boil or could bake," And—this very plain cook—"she must leave."

So she left, and her master, the very same day, For the Registry Office set out, For he naturally thought it the very best way Of procuring a cook with the smallest delay. (You, too, would have done so, no doubt.)

But, "A cook? Goodness gracious!" the lady declared (At the Registry Office, I mean), "I've no cook on my books, sir, save one, and she's shared By two families; and, sir, I've nearly despaired, For so rare, sir, of late, cooks have been."

Where next he enquired 'twas precisely the same: There wasn't a cook to be had. Though quite high were the wages he'd willingly name, And he advertised,—uselessly,—none ever came,— Not a cook, good, indiff'rent, or bad.

What _was_ to be done? Mr. Lymmington-Blake Began to grow thinner and thinner. (Now and then it is pleasant, but _quite_ a mistake, To dine every day on a chop or a steak, And have nothing besides for your dinner.)

So he said: "If I can't get a cook, then a mate I'll endeavour to find in a wife" (His late wife deceased, I p'r'aps ought to relate, Four or five years before), "for this terrible state Of things worries me out of my life."

So he looked in the papers, and read with delight Of a "Lady of good education, A charming complexion, eyes blue (rather light)," Who "would to a gentleman willingly write." She "preferred one without a relation."

Now Lymmington-Blake was an orphan from birth, And had neither a sister nor brother, While of uncles and aunts he'd a similar dearth, And he thought, "Here's a lady of singular worth; I should think we should suit one another."

So he wrote to the lady, and she wrote to him, And the lady requested a photo, But he thought, "I'm not young, and the picture might dim Her affection; I'll plead, to the lady, a whim, And refuse her my photo _in toto_."

"I'll be happy, however," he wrote, "to arrange A meeting for Wednesday night. Hampstead Heath, on the pathway, beside the old Grange, At a quarter to eight. If you won't think it strange, Wear a rose—I shall know you at sight."

Came Wednesday night, Mr. Lymmington-Blake To the _rendezvous_ all in a flutter Himself—in a new suit of clothes—did betake; And over and over, to save a mistake, The speech he had thought of did mutter.

_He_ wore a red rose, for he thought it would show He had taken the matter to heart. A lady was there. Was it she? Yes, or no? Blake didn't know whether to stay or to go. He was nervous. But what made him start?

'Twas the figure—at first he could not see her face— Which somehow familiar did look. Then she turned—and he ran. Do you think it was base? I fancy that you'd have done so in his place. _It was Miriam Briggs, the plain cook._

XVIII. THAT OF "8" AND "22."

'Twas on the "Royal Sovereign," Which sails from Old Swan Pier, That Henry Phipps met Emily Green, And—_this_ is somewhat queer— _Aboard the ship was Obadiah, Likewise a lady called Maria_

The surnames of these people I Cannot just now recall, But 'tis quite immaterial, It matters not at all. The point is _this_—Phipps met Miss Green; The sequel quickly will be seen.

He noticed her the first time when To luncheon they went down (The luncheon on the "Sovereign" Is only half a-crown), Where Obadiah gravely at The table, with Maria, sat.

And Obadiah coughed because Phipps looked at Emily—she at him. Maria likewise noticed it, And thereupon grew stern and grim, Though neither one of all the four Had met the other one before.

Now Emily Green was pretty, but Maria—she was the reverse; While Obadiah's looks were tra- Gic—something like Macbeth's, but worse.— And these two somehow seemed to be Quite down on Phipps, and Miss E. G.

For when _she_ smiled, and kindly passed The salt—which Phipps had asked her for— Maria tossed her head and sniffed, And Obadiah muttered "Pshaw!" While later on Miss E. G. thinks She heard Maria call her "minx."

Twice on the upper deck when Phipps Just ventured, in a casual way, To pass appropriate remarks, Or comment on the "perfect" day, He caught Maria listening, and, Close by, saw Obadiah stand.