Part 6
And, should a missionary call To-day, he'd find them gentle, With no perverted tastes at all, And manners ornamental; He'd be received, I'm bound to say, In courteous and proper way; Nor need he fear To taste their cheer However ornamental.
XXXII. THAT OF A FRUITLESS ENDEAVOUR.
Come let us quit the gruesome tales Of cannibals, and Kings, and things; On such-like themes my fancy fails, My muse a simpler story sings: I'd have you, one and all, consider To-day a bachelor and "widder."
The bachelor,—named Robinson, (A clerk, or something, in the City, Just what, we will not dwell upon), A pleasant man, and somewhat witty, But thin,—I've seldom known a thinner,— Dwelt in the suburbs, out at Pinner.
The widow lived at Pinner too, _Her_ name Ann Partington, _née_ Gair, And rich,—if what was said is true,— Her age was forty; she was fair And fat—indeed, as for that matter, I've seldom known a person fatter.
Now Robinson considered: "Why Should I, an eligible man, In lonely 'diggings' live and die, When I might marry widow Ann? I'll call, and tentatively mention My matrimonial intention."
The widow seemed at first inclined To close the matter out of hand. She said: "Yes, thank you, I don't mind," (No shyness _there_, you understand), But later on said: "No, for us To marry would be ludicrous.
We'd be the laughing-stock, I fear, Of neighbours round about, For you are awfully thin, poor dear, And I am awfully stout; I must withhold consideration Till there's some drastic alteration."
So Robinson determined that He'd put on flesh somehow; He'd try all means of getting fat, And made this solemn vow: "The widow,—well, he'd do without her Till he had grown a trifle stouter."
"Laugh and grow fat," somebody said; So, daily, Robinson The comic papers duly read, And gloated thereupon: He spent no end of pocket money In things which he considered funny.
And eat!—I tell you he _did_ eat!— While (this was scarcely wise) He seldom moved from off his seat, And took _no_ exercise. 'Twas not surprising, then—now, was it?— He gained in "adipose deposit."
He did; and when he turned the scale At twenty stone or more, He for the widow's house set sail, And waddled to the door. She met him—thin as any rat, _For_ SHE'D _been taking Anti-Fat_!
XXXIII. THAT OF THE UNFORTUNATE LOVER.
I often heave a sigh to think Of poor young A. McDougal, And his disastrous bold attempt To learn to play the bugle (Which, judging from the sad result, Must be, I fancy, difficult).
It happened thus: McDougal took His charming young _fiancée_[3] One evening to a "Monday Pop." (Her Christian name was Nancy.) And there they heard—he and this maid,— A solo on the bugle played.
Fair Nancy was enraptured, and Said: "Dearest A. McDougal, I'd love you more than ever if You'd learn to play the bugle." McDougal, as a lover should, Remarked, he'd learn it—"if he could."
That very night, as they walked home, McDougal was deluded A bugle into purchasing (With leather case included), At more than twice its proper price, Because it looked "so very nice."
He little thought, poor wretched man, As he this bargain fixed on, How it would wreck his future life. He took it home to Brixton, And, from that hour, with much concern, To play upon it tried to learn.
His efforts—so I understand— At first were not successful. His landladies objected—which, Of course, was most distressful; Then neighbours much annoyed him, for _They_ sued him in a court of law.
Said he: "'Tis strange, where'er I go Opprobrium and hooting My efforts greet. I'd better try The common, out at Tooting," Where,—on his bugle-tootling bent,— He most appropriately went.
Each evening after business hours He'd practice—'twas his fancy— Till _he_ thought he played well enough To serenade Miss Nancy, Though (this must be well understood) His playing really was _not_ good.
He had no ear for music, and Made discords which were racking; While as for time, his sense of _that_ Was quite, entirely, lacking. Still, excellent was his intent As unto Nancy's house he went.
"That tune," he thought, "which we first heard, 'Twould doubtless, much engage her, If I performed the self-same piece" ('Twas something in D major), Which, knowing nought of C's and D's, He played in quite a bunch of keys.
* * *
"Who is it making all this noise?" A voice inquired quite crossly Above his head. "'Tis I, my love," Said A. McDougal, hoarsely. "Then go away; I've never heard," Said Nancy, "noises so absurd."
"My playing—don't you like it?" "No; And, till you're more proficient, I will not marry you at all: I've said it,—that's sufficient." She closed the window with a bang. A wild note from the bugle rang—
A wildly, weirdly, wailing note To set one's blood a-freezing; A compound 'twixt nocturnal cats, And wheels which want a-greasing— For A. McDougal—ah! how sad— Her heartlessness had driven mad.
And Tooting Common, now, at night None cross but the undaunted, For people, living thereabout, Declare the place is haunted By one who serenades the moon With jangled bugle, out of tune.
Footnote 3:
Cockney pronunciation please.
XXXIV. THAT OF THE FEMALE GORILLY.
Och! Oi can't remember roightly Phwat exactly waz the name Of the gintleman phwat did it, But Oi read it all the same— How he lived insoide a cage, sor ('Twas a moighty strong consarn), In the middle of the forest, Monkey language for to larn.
If he larned to spake it roightly Oi can't say, sor, yis or no; But he left the cage behoind him, That for sartin sure Oi know; For Oi saw it there mesilf, sor— If ye loike Oi'll tell yez how. 'Tis a moighty cur'ous story That Oi'm tellin' of yez now.
'Tis some many years agone, sor, Oi forget phwy Oi waz sint With the great explorin' party, But they axed me,—an' Oi wint. An' the forests that we passed through, An' the rivers that we crossed, Phwat with one thing an' another Ivery man but me waz lost.
But Oi still kept on explorin', Walkin' by mesilf for moiles, An' a-swimmin' over rivers, Filled with hungry crocodoiles, Till wan day a big gorilly Oi saw standin' in the road, And, phwen Oi saw the cratur, "Och, bedad!" Oi cried, "Oi'm blow'd."
For Oi took him for a Christian. Dressed in plant'in leaves and things, With a bonnet on his head, sor, An' around his neck some rings Ov berries from the trees, sor, An', sez Oi, "It seems to me, By the manner of his dressin', It's most loikely _he's_ a _she_."
She waz that, an' by the same, sor, When Oi bowed and raised me hat, She jist flung her arms around me, And then down beside me sat. Oi could see she'd fell in love, sor, An' Oi came all over hot, For a big female gorilly 'S worse than any Hottentot.
An' Oi rasoned with her thus, sor: "Oi _can't_ marry yez, becaze Oi've wan woife in Ballyhooly, An' another wan that waz Me woife up in Killarney; If Oi marry _yez_, ye see, They'll call it bigamy, perhaps, Or trigonometry."
But she didn't understand, sor, An' she stayed with me all day, An' she growled an' showed her teeth, sor, When Oi tried to get away; Then she led me to her home, sor— It waz made insoide the cage, (That the gintleman Oi told yez ov Had left there, Oi'll engage.)
"An' ye mane to shut me up in that, Ye ugly great gorilly?" Thinks Oi. "Bedad! ye won't, thin. D'ye take me for a silly?" So when she opens wide the door, Oi steps asoide politely; _She_ walks insoide, _Oi_ shuts the door, An' fastens it up toightly.
An' a moighty lucky thing it waz Oi fastened her up so, sor; What would have happened otherwise Oi really do not know, sor. But Oi left her far behind me, Still a-yellin' in her rage, An' if the gintleman goes back, He'll find her—_in the cage_.
XXXV. THAT OF THE ARTIST AND THE MOTOR-CAR.
(_Tragedy._)
There lived an artist, Not unknown to fame— Wild horses wouldn't Drag from me his name. Besides, it doesn't matter,—not a bit,— It is sufficient, painting was his lit- Tle game.
He copied Turner- Esque effects with ease, And painted cattle,— Miniatures,—or seas; Yet found some difficulty, I've heard said, In making both ends meat, (or even bread, And cheese).
He sat one day with- In his stu-di-o, Grieving that times were Bad, and prices low, When, suddenly, this thought occurred to him, (Of course, 'twas but a fancy, or a whim, You know):
"How strange 'twould be if What I painted here Upon the canvas Really should appear! I wish it would, and then remain for good. Upon my word, ha-ha! I say! That would Be queer!"
No sooner had the Thought occurred to him Than round and round the Studio seemed to swim. A fairy voice declared: "_On your behalf The wish is granted!_" then "_Ha! ha!_" ('Twas laugh- Ter grim.)
"Absurd," the artist Cried. "Of course, there are No fairies now; we're Too advanced by far To think it; still, with just a line or so Upon the canvas here, I'll draw a mo- Tor-car."
He drew, and scarce had Finished it before His servant knocked. (Up- On her face she wore A puzzled look.) "Sir, here's your coat and hat, And, if you please, _your motor-car is at The door_!"
The artist hardly Could believe his eyes, For what he saw quite Filled him with surprise: There stood the _very_ motor-car he'd meant, In make, and pattern, most convenient, And size.
"Well! as it's here, I'll Use the thing," he cried. (Indeed, what was there To be done beside?) So, watched by quite a crowd about the door, He turned the crank, and off he started for A ride.
On went the motor- Car, on—"pop-pop-pop!"— On through the streets, and On past house and shop, Through country lanes, and over hill and dell, Delightfully,—until he thought it well To stop.
But stop he couldn't, Try whate'er he would— _He hadn't drawn quite Everything he should_; Some little crank, or something, he'd not done, Because the mechanism he'd not un- Derstood.
Result? Poor fellow! To this day, he flies Along the roads, with Starting eyes, and cries For help—which nobody can give him, for He's doomed to ride until the thing busts, or— He dies.
XXXVI. THAT OF THE INCONSIDERATE NABOB AND THE LADY WHO DESIRED TO BE A BEGUM.
Begums! Exactly what they are I really ought to know—but don't; In my Encyclopædia I'll look them up. Stay! No, I won't. Instead, let us converse together About Miss Mary Merryweather.
A guileless child of nature, she Who lived out Upper Norwood way, A Begum she desired to be, And dreamt about this night and day, But,—though she made a solemn vow to Be a Begum,—knew not how to.
"What _is_ a Begum?" friends would ask, And Mary M—— would shake her head. "Though doubtless it will be a task I'll find out for myself," she said. They raised their hands in consternation At this announced determination.
Later Miss Merryweather said: "To be a Begum one must go To India. I'd better wed A captain on a P. and O. I'll therefore marry Captain Jolly." (A kind old man who called her "Polly.")
"Though what on earth a girl could see," He said, while on their honeymoon, "Attractive in a man like me——" Then Mrs. Jolly very soon (Though doubtless with some trepidation) Explained to him the situation.
Good Captain Jolly sighed, and said: "A Begum you can never be, My dearest Poll, till I am dead; Perhaps I'd better die," said he. "If you don't mind, I think you'd better," Said she; "'twill suit me to the letter."
So Captain Jolly, worthy soul, Deceased, as she desired him to. In India—the lady's goal; A wealthy Nabob came in view, Whom Widow Jolly captivated. And,—later,—married, as is stated.
"A Begum now at last am I," She said, when she had married him, "A Begum!" said the Nabob. "Why?" His wife explained. "A harmless whim," Said he; "but I regret to state, Ma'am, You're _not_ what you anticipate, Ma'am.
"A Begum is a _Rajah's_ wife, And _not_ a Nabob's, don't you see; And so throughout _my_ natural life A Begum you can never be." She wept—and hinted Captain Jolly Had died to please his little Polly.
"Perhaps you——" "No, I won't," he cried; "I draw the line," said he, "at that. Although poor Jolly may have died To please you—I refuse. That's flat!"
* * *
And so, alas! for her endeavour, She never _was_ a Begum,—never!
XXXVII. THAT OF DR. FARLEY, M.D., SPECIALIST IN LITTLE TOES.
Ever heard of Dr. Farley, Doctor Farley, sir, M.D., Living in the street of Harley, Street of Harley, Number Three?
Years ago the simple fact is, Simple fact is, don't you know, He had but a tiny practice, Tiny practice, down at Bow.
Consultations for a shilling, For a shilling, sir, with pills; For this sum he e'en was willing, Willing, sir, to cure all ills.
Pains in "tum-tums" he would cure a, Cure a man of, in a night, With Ip. Cac. and Aqua pura (Aqua pura his delight).
He was, too, a skilful surgeon, Skilful surgeon, yet his fee— Seldom was it known to verge on, Even verge on, two and three.
Work at this rate wasn't paying, Wasn't paying—what surprise? So he sold his practice, saying, Saying, "I must specialize."
"That's the way to pick up money, Pick up money, so I'm told." So he did it. Now—it's funny, Funny, but—he rolls in gold.
His success himself surprises, Much surprises, for he knows That he only specialises, Specialises, little toes.
When swells in their little tootsies, Little tootsies, suffer pain, Unto him they bring their footsies, Footsies, to put right again;
For they say, sir, "None but he, sir, He, sir, understands the toe." Earls and Dukes wait every day, sir, Every day, sir, in a row.
This the history of Farley, Doctor Farley, sir, M.D., _Others—in the street of Harley— Others like him there may be._
There's a moral to this story, To this story, if you're wise: If you'd win both wealth and glory, Wealth and glory—SPECIALIZE.
XXXVIII. THAT OF JEREMIAH SCOLES, MISER.
I sing of joys, and junketings, Of holly, and of such-like things; I sing of merry mistletoe, And,—pardon me,—I sing also Of Jeremiah Scoles. I sing of Mister Scoles because So singular a man he was, And had so very strange a way Of celebrating Christmas Day— Unlike all other souls.
Myself, I am a cheerful man, Enjoying life as best I can. At Christmas-time I love to see The flow of mirth and jollity About the festive board; I love to dance, I _try_ to sing; On enemies, like anything, At Christmas-time I heap hot coals, But not so Jeremiah Scoles— _He_ loves a miser's hoard.
I chanced one year, on Christmas Day, To call upon him, just to say That we'd be very pleased to see Him, if he'd care to come to tea. I found him quite alone. He sat before a fireless grate; The room looked bare and desolate, And he, unkempt, in dressing-gown, Received me with an angry frown, And spoke in surly tone.
"Ha! what d'ye _want_?" said he to me And eyed me most suspiciously. I laughed and gave a hearty smack Upon the grumpy fellow's back, And cried: "Come home with me. We'll treat you well. There's lots of fun—" But ere I scarcely had begun He cut me short. "Pooh! folly! stuff! See _here_; I've fun—quite fun enough!" He laughed, but mirthlessly.
Before him on the table lay Gold, silver, coppers, in array; Some empty bottles; stacks of bills; Some boxes for containing pills— And that was all. Said he: "This gold is what I _haven't_ spent In presents; and the silver's meant To show what _could_ be wasted in— Pah!—Christmas boxes. 'Tis a sin I don't encourage—no, not me?
"The coppers—little boys, no doubt, Would like 'em—_they may go without_; While these long bills I _should_ have had From tradesmen, had I been so mad As to have bought the things They represent for Christmas cheer; These bottles and pill-boxes here Show what I will _not_ have to take, Because I'll have _no_ stomach-ache That over-eating brings.
"And thus I spend my Christmas Day, Thinking what silly fools are they Who spend so much in solid cash On so much sentimental trash. And now, good-day to you!" He showed me out, he banged the door, And I was—where I was before.
* * *
I really think, upon my word, His line of reasoning's most absurd. No doubt you think so, too?
XXXIX. THAT OF THE HIGH-SOULED YOUTH.
A year or so ago, you know, I had a friend, at Pimlico, For want of better name called Joe (This name is not his right 'un). He was a sweet, poetic youth, Romantic, gallant, and in sooth Might well be called, in very truth An "Admirable Crichton."