Part 4
At last, at Margate by the Sea, The "Royal Sovereign" came to port. Phipps hurried off and soon secured A lodging very near The Fort (He'd understood Miss Green to say That she should lodge somewhere that way).
He really _was_ annoyed to find That Obadiah came there too, While Miss Maria, opposite, The parlour blinds was peering through. Still he felt very happy, for He saw Miss Green arrive next door.
That night he met her on the pier, And Phipps, of course, he raised his hat. Miss Emily Green blushed, smiled, and stopped— It was not to be wondered at. But Obadiah, passing by, Transfixed them with his eagle eye.
And, later in the evening, when The two were list'ning to the band, Phipps—tho' perhaps he oughtn't to— Was gently squeezing Emily's hand. He dropped it suddenly, for there Maria stood, with stony stare.
'Twas so on each succeeding day. Whate'er they did, where'er they went, There Obadiah followed them; Maria, too. No _accident_ Could possibly account for this Sad interference with their bliss.
At last Phipps, goaded to despair, Cried: "Pray, sir—_what_, sir, do you wish?" But Obadiah turned away, Merely ejaculating "Pish!" Then Phipps addressed Maria too, And all he got from _her_ was "Pooh!"
So Mr. Phipps and Emily Green Determined _something must be done_. And all one day they talked it o'er, From early morn till setting sun. Then, privately, the morrow fixed For joining in the bathing,—mixed.
They knew that Obadiah would Be present, and Maria too. They were; and his machine was "8," Maria's Number "22." They each stood glaring from their door, Some little distance from the shore.
The tide came in, the bathers all— Including Phipps and Emily Green— Each sought his own—his very own— Particu_lar_ bath_ing_-machine; But Nos. "22" and "8" Were left, unheeded, to their fate.
When, one by one, the horses drew The other machines to the shore, _Phipps bribed the men to leave those two Exactly where they were before_. (In "8," you know, was Obadiah, And "22" contained Maria.)
The tide rose higher, carrying The two machines quite out to sea. The love affairs of Emily Green And Phipps proceeded happily.
* * *
I'm not quite certain of the fate Of either "22" or "8."
XIX. THAT OF THE HOOLIGAN AND THE PHILANTROPIST.
Bill Basher was a Hooligan, The terror of the town, A reputation he possessed For knocking people down; On unprotected persons Of a sudden he would spring, And hit them with his buckle-belt, Which hurt like anything.
One day ten stalwart constables Bill Basher took in charge. "We cannot such a man," said they, "Permit to roam at large; He causes all the populace To go about in fear; We'd better take him to the Court Of Mr. Justice Dear."
To Mr. Justice Dear they went— A tender Judge was he: He was a great Philanthropist (Spelt with a big, big "P"). His bump—phrenologists declared— Of kindness was immense; Altho' he somewhat lacked the bump Of common, common sense.
"Dear, dear!" exclaimed the kindly Judge A-looking very wise, "Your conduct in arresting _him_ Quite fills me with surprise. Poor fellow! Don't you see the lit- Tle things which he has done Were doubtless but dictated By a sense of harmless fun?
"We really _mustn't_ be too hard Upon a man for _that_, And _I_ will not do more than just Inflict a fine. That's flat! See how he stands within the dock, As mild as any lamb. No! Sixpence fine. You are discharged. _Good_ morning, Willi_am_."
Now strange to say, within a week, Bill Basher had begun To knock about a lot of other People "just in fun." He hit a young policeman With a hammer on the head, Until the poor young fellow Was approximately dead.
"Good gracious!" murmured Justice Dear, "_This_ really is _too_ bad, To hit policemen on the head Is not polite, my lad, I must remand you for a week To think what can be done, And, in the meantime, please remain In cell one twenty one."
Then, Justice Dear, he pondered thus: "Bill Basher ought to wed Some good and noble woman; _Then_ he'd very soon be led To see the error of his ways, And give those errors o'er." This scheme he thought upon again, And liked it more and more.
A daughter had good Justice Dear, Whose name was Angeline (The lady's name is not pronounced To rhyme with "line," but "leen"), Not beautiful, but dutiful As ever she could be; _Whatever_ her papa desired She _did_ obediently.
With her he talked the matter o'er, And told her that he thought, In the interests of humanity, To marry Bill she ought. And, though she loved a barrister Named Smith, her grief she hid And, with a stifled sigh, prepared To do as she was bid.
They got a special licence, and Together quickly went To visit Basher in his cell And show their kind intent.
* * *
His answer it was to the point, Though couched in language queer, _These_ were the very words he used: "_Wot?_ Marry _'er_? No fear!"
Good Justice Dear was greatly shocked; Indeed, it _was_ a blow To find that _such_ ingratitude The Hooligan should show. So he gave to Smith, the barrister, His daughter for a wife, While on Bill he passed this sentence— "Penal servitude for life."
XX. THAT OF THE SOCIALIST AND THE EARL.
It was, I think, near Marble Arch, Or _somewhere_ in the Park, A Socialist Once shook his fist And made this sage remark:
"It is a shime that working men, The likes of you and me— Poor, underfed, Without a bed— In such a state should be.
"When bloated aristocracy Grows daily wuss an' wuss. Why don't the rich Behave as sich An' give a bit to us?
"They've carriages and flunkeys, Estates, an' lots of land. _Why_ this should be, My friends," said he, "I fail to understand.
"Why should _they_ 'ave the bloomin' lot, When, as I've said before, It's understood _This_ man's as good As _that_ one is—or MORE?
"So what I sez, my friends, sez I, Is: Down with all the lot, Unless they share— It's only fair— With us what they have got!"
* * *
An Earl, who stood amongst the crowd, Was _very_ much impressed. "Dear me," he said, And smote his head, "I really _am_ distressed.
"To think that all these many years I've lived so much at ease, With leisure, rank, Cash at the bank, And luxuries like these,
"While, as this honest person says, _Our_ class is all to blame That these have naught: We really ought To bow our heads in shame.
"My wealth unto this man I'll give, My title I will drop, And then I'll go And live at Bow And keep a chandler's shop."
* * *
The Socialist he took the wealth The Earl put in his hands, And bought erewhile A house in style And most extensive lands.
Was knighted (for some charity Judiciously bestowed); Within a year Was made a Peer; To fame was on the road.
But do not think that Fortune's smiles From friends drew him apart, Or hint that rude Ingratitude Could dwell within his heart.
You fear, perhaps, that he forgot The worthy Earl. Ah, no! Household supplies He _often_ buys From _his_ shop down at Bow.
XXI. THAT OF THE RETIRED PORK-BUTCHER AND THE SPOOK.
I may as well Proceed to tell About a Mister Higgs, Who grew quite rich In trade—the which Was selling pork and pigs.
From trade retired, He much desired To rank with gentlefolk, So bought a place He called "The Chase," And furnished it—old oak.
Ancestors got (Twelve pounds the lot, In Tottenham Court Road); A pedigree— For nine pounds three,— The Heralds' Court bestowed.
Within the hall, And on the wall, Hung armour bright and strong. "To Ethelbred"— The label read— De Higgs, this did belong."
'Twas _quite_ complete, This country seat, Yet neighbours stayed away. Nobody called,— Higgs was blackballed,— Which caused him great dismay.
"Why _can_ it be?" One night said he When thinking of it o'er. There came a knock ('Twas twelve o'clock) Upon his chamber door.
Higgs cried, "Come in!" A vapour thin The keyhole wandered through. Higgs rubbed his eyes In mild surprise: A ghost appeared in view.
"I beg," said he, "You'll pardon me, In calling rather late. A family ghost, I seek a post, With wage commensurate.
"I'll serve you well; My 'fiendish yell' Is certain sure to please. 'Sepulchral tones,' And 'rattling bones,' I'm _very_ good at these.
"Five bob I charge To roam at large, With 'clanking chains' _ad lib._; I do such things As 'gibberings' At one-and-three per gib.
"Or, by the week, I merely seek Two pounds—which is not dear; Because I need, Of course, _no_ feed, _No_ washing, and _no_ beer."
Higgs thought it o'er A bit, before He hired the family ghost, But, finally, He did agree To give to him the post.
It got about— You know, no doubt, How quickly such news flies— Throughout the place, From "Higgses Chase" Proceeded ghostly cries.
The rumour spread, Folks shook their head, But dropped in one by one. A bishop came (Forget his name), And then the thing was done.
For afterwards _All_ left their cards, "Because," said they, "you see, One who can boast A family ghost Respectable _must_ be."
* * *
When it was due, The "ghostes's" screw Higgs raised—as was but right— They often play, In friendly way, A game of cards at night.
XXII. THAT OF THE POET AND THE BUCCANEERS.
It does not fall to every man To be a minor poet, But Inksby-Slingem he was one, And wished the world to know it. In almost every magazine His dainty verses might be seen.
He'd take a piece of paper—blank, With nothing writ upon it— And soon a triolet 'twould be A ballade, or a sonnet. Pantoums,—in fact, whate'er you please, This poet wrote, with greatest ease.
By dozens he'd turn poems out, To Editors he'd bring 'em, Till, quite a household word became The name of Inksby-Slingem. A mild exterior had he, With dove-like personality.
His hair was dark and lank and long, His necktie large and floppy (_Vide_ his portrait in the sketch "A-smelling of a Poppy"), And unto this young man befell The strange adventure I'll now tell.
He took a summer holiday Aboard the good ship "Goschen," Which foundered, causing all but he To perish, in the ocean, And many days within a boat Did Inksby-Slingem sadly float—
Yes, many days, until with joy He saw a ship appearing; A skull and crossbones flag it bore, And towards him it was steering. "This rakish-looking craft," thought he, "I fear a pirate ship must be."
It was. Manned by a buccaneer. And, from the very first, he Could see the crew were wicked men, All scowling and bloodthirsty; Indeed, he trembled for his neck When hoisted to their upper deck.
Indelicate the way, at least, That he was treated—very. They turned his pockets inside-out; They stole his Waterbury; His scarf-pin, and his golden rings, His coat and—er—his _other things_.
Then, they ransacked his carpet-bag, To add to his distresses, And tumbled all his papers out, His poems, and MSS.'s. He threw himself upon his knees, And cried: "I pray you, spare me these!"
"These? What are these?" the Pirate cried. "I've not the slightest notion." He read a verse or two—and then Seemed filled with strange emotion. He read some more; he heaved a sigh; A briny tear fell from his eye.
"Dear, dear!" he sniffed, "how touching is This poem 'To a Brother!' It makes me think of childhood's days, My old home, and my mother." He read another poem through, And passed it to his wondering crew.
_They_ read it, and all—all but two— Their eyes were soon a-piping; It was a most affecting sight To see those pirates wiping Their eyes and noses in their griefs On many-coloured handkerchiefs,
* * *
To make a lengthy story short, The gentle poet's verses Quite won those men from wicked ways, From piratings, and curses; And all of them, so I've heard tell, Became quite, _quite_ respectable.
All—all but two, and one of _them_ Than e'er before much worse is For _he_ is now a publisher, And "pirates" Slingem's verses; The other drives a "pirate" 'bus, Continuing—alas!—to "cuss."
XXIII. THAT OF THE UNDERGROUND "SULPHUR CURE."
Sulphuric smoke doth nearly choke That person—more's the pity— Who does the round, by Underground, On pleasure, or on business bound, From West End to the City.
At Gower Street I chanced to meet, One day, a strange old party, Who tore his hair in wild despair, Until I thought—"I would not swear, That you're not mad, my hearty."
"Yes, mad, _quite_ mad. Dear me! How sad!" I cried; for, to the porter, He did complain—"Look here! Again _No smoke_ from any single train That's passed within the quarter.
"_This air's too pure!_ I cannot cure My patients, if you don't, sir, Sulphuric gas allow to pass, Until it thickly coats the glass. Put up with _this_ I won't, sir!"
I noticed then some gentlemen And ladies join the chatter— And dear, dear, dear, they _did_ look queer! Thought I—"They're very ill, I fear; I wonder what's the matter."
Surmise was vain. In came my train. I got in. "First"—a "Smoking." That motley crew—_they got in too_. I wondered what on earth to do, For each began a-choking.
"Pray, won't you smoke?" the old man spoke. Thought I—"He's growing madder." "I wish you would. 'Twould do them good. My card I'd hand you if I could, But have none. My name's Chadder.
"My patients these. _Now_, if you please!" He cried, in tones commanding, And gave three raps, "I think, perhaps, We'd best begin. Undo your wraps!" _This_ passed my understanding.
"Put out your tongues! Inflate your lungs!" His patients all got ready; Their wraps thrown off, they each did doff Their respirator—spite their cough— And took breaths long and steady.
"Inhale! Inhale! And do not fail The air you take to swallow!" They gasped, and wheezed, and coughed, and sneezed. Their "doctor," he looked mighty pleased. Expecting me to follow.
"Pray, tell me why, good sir!" gasped I, "Before I lose my senses, Why ever you such strange things do? To know this, I confess my cu- Riosity immense is."
In accents mild he spoke, and smiled. "Delighted! I assure you. _We take the air_—nay! do not stare; Should aught your normal health impair, This 'sulphur cure' will cure you.
"I undertake, quite well to make Patients,—_whate'er_ they're ailing. Each day we meet, proceed _en suite_ From Edgware Road to Gower Street, And back again—_inhaling_.
"That sulphur's good, 'tis understood, But, I would briefly mention, The simple way—as one may say,— In which _we_ take it, day by day, Is _quite my own invention_.
"Profits? Ah, yes, I must confess I make a tidy bit, sir? Tho' Mr. Perkes', and Mr. Yerkes 'S system—if it only works— Will put a stop to it, sir."
A stifled sigh, a tear-dimmed eye Betrayed his agitation. "Down here there'll be no smoke," said he, "When run by electricity. Excuse me! Here's our station!"
He fussed about, and got them out, (Those invalids I mean, sir,) Then raised his hat; I bowed at that, And then, remaining where I sat, Went on to Turnham Green, sir.
XXIV. THAT OF THE FAIRY GRANDMOTHER AND THE COMPANY PROMOTER.
A Company Promoter was Septimus Sharpe, And the subject is he of this ditty; He'd his name—nothing more— Painted on the glass door Of an office high up on the toppermost floor Of a house in Throgmorton Street, City.
The Companies which he had promoted, so far, Had not—so to speak,—been successes. As a matter of fact, He had often to act In a manner requiring considerable tact To—financially—keep out of messes.
One day there appeared—Sharpe could never tell how,— In a costume unusually airy, A young lady. "Dear me! How surprising!" said he. "Now, who upon earth can this young person be? Is it possible? Why! _it's a Fairy_!"
"You are right, Septimus," said the Fairy—"quite right, For, in fact, I'm your Fairy Grandmother!" Sharpe had to confess, "I already possess Two grandmothers. But," said he, "nevertheless, In _your_ case, I will welcome another.
"Especially if, Fairy Grandmother dear, Your intentions are—pardon me,—golden. I'll be pleased, if my till— Or my coffers—you'll fill, As,—like a good fairy,—I've no doubt you will; _Then_ to you I'll be greatly beholden."
The Fairy she smiled, as, quite sweetly, she said: "You're mistaken, my dear young relation. There's no fairy displays In these up-to-date days, Her powers in _such_ crude and old-fashioned ways— No! I bring you AN IMAGINATION.