Part 7
And oh! it grieved him sore to see The lack,—these times,—of chivalry. He'd now and then confide to me His views upon the matter. "Good, never _now_ is done by stealth!" He'd say, "Men ruin mind, and health In sordid scramble after wealth; And talk,—is idle chatter."
"That simple virtue, Modesty, Alas! it now appears to be A valueless commodity, Though _once_ men prized it highly." He went on thus,—like anything, Until I heard, one day last Spring, That he intended marrying The daughter of old Riley.
I knew the Riley girls, and thought "Now this has turned out as it ought. Joe is a reg'lar right good sort To marry 'Cinderella.'" The younger one, (thus called by me) A sweet good girl as e'er might be Was poor; the elder—rich was _she_— Her name was Arabella.
An Aunt had left her lots of gold, While 'Cinderella'—so I'm told,— She left entirely in the cold Without a single shilling. The elder one,—though plain to see,— Of suitors had some two, or three; Poor Cinderella, nobody To marry _her_ seemed willing.
Until the noble high-souled Joe— That Errant-knight of Pimlico— Came forth, the world at large to show That _he_ at least knew better. In spirit I before him bowed, "To know a man like _that_ I'm proud And happy!" I remarked aloud, And sent to him this letter.
"_Dear Joe;—Wealth as you say's a trap Gold is but dross,—not worth a rap— How very like you—dear old chap!— To marry 'Cinderella.'_" * * * He wrote:—"_I must expostulate, I'm not a_ FOOL _at any rate_! OF COURSE _I've chosen as a mate The_ RICH _one, Arabella_!"
XL. THAT OF MR. JUSTICE DEAR'S LITTLE JOKE AND THE UNFORTUNATE MAN WHO COULD NOT SEE IT.
Again of Mr. Justice Dear My harmless numbers flowing, Shall tell a story somewhat queer About His Worship, showing, How sensitive the legal wit. It _is_. There is no doubt of it.
Before good Justice Dear one day A man—for some small matter, Was hailed, and, in his own sly way (The former, not the latter) Made,—and I thought the Court would choke,— An unpremeditated joke.
The prosecuting Counsel roared, The Jury giggled madly, Only the Prisoner looked bored, _He_ took it rather sadly. "Why don't you laugh?" the Usher said, The Prisoner, he shook his head.
"I cannot see," said he, "that's flat— A fact that's most annoying,— What everyone is laughing at, And seemingly enjoying." This strange remark, it reached his ear And irritated Justice Dear.
"When I am pleased to make a joke That's _not_ the way to treat it." Thus, warningly, his Worship spoke, "Now listen! I'll repeat it." He did. He said it o'er and o'er. At least a dozen times or more.
"Excuse me, sir," the Prisoner said, "At _what_ may you be driving?" Good Justice Dear turned very red, "This joke of my contriving, If you don't see it, Sir, you ought; If not—well—'tis contempt of Court."
The Counsel then explained it, but Quite failed the point to show him; The Usher muttered "Tut-tut-tut!" The Jury whispered "Blow him!" Then several people wrote it down. The Prisoner still wore a frown.
"Am I supposed to laugh at _that_? Why? I can't see the reason." It was too much. His Lordship sat Aghast. "'Tis almost treason! That unpremeditated joke before Has _never_ failed to raise a roar.
"Defective in morality, Must be that man misguided, Who fails its brilliancy to see." His Lordship then decided To send the man,—despite his tears,— To servitude, for twenty years.
XLI. THAT OF THE LADIES OF ASCENSION ISLAND.
On the Island of Ascension There are only ladies ten, The remaining population Being officers or men. "Dear me!" I hear you saying, "How united they must be!" But in this you'd be mistaken, As you'll very quickly see.
For each lady on the Island Thinks _she_ ought to take the lead In social matters, and on this They're not at all agreed. And Mrs. Smith's told Mrs. Brown She thinks her most absurd, While others cut each other dead And don't exchange a word.
This state of thing's been going on They tell me year by year, And the husbands have grown tired of it As we should do I fear; For connubial felicity Is doomed, if all our lives Are spent in listening to the faults Of other people's wives.
Quite recently a steamer called For cinnamon and spice, And her Captain and the officers Were asked for their advice. They gave it promptly. It was this— "'Twere better you agreed, In social matters, just to let The _eldest_ lady lead."
They tried it. But—good gracious! They are worse off than before, For every lady in the place Is firm upon that score. Impossible it is that age Shall be the final test, _For every one insists that she Is younger than the rest_!
XLII. THAT OF THE ARTICULATING SKELETON.
There was a worthy Doctor once Who unlike Mother Hubbard Had _many_ bones (a skeleton) Shut up within a cupboard.
One night the worthy Doctor dreamt, (He'd been up rather late) His articulated skeleton Did thus articulate:—
"Come! Doctor, come! confess that you're a fraud A very specious humbug and a sham. Though meek as any lamb. Don't glare at me! I'll tell it not abroad But merely in _your_ ears alone applaud The wily artifice of pill and dram.
"_You_ know as well as I do, you don't mean, One half the things you tell 'our patient.' No! Why, I can clearly show, That Mrs. Gobbles' ailments are but spleen, ('Tis quite the simplest cause that e'er was seen) And yet what crack-jaw names you now bestow.
"Because, forsooth, the longer you can prey Upon her pocket, _that_ doth please you best, So, Doctor, you protest 'The case is serious,' from day to day, 'And it must run its course,' you gravely say With wisest head-shake and a look distressed.
"And then those pills! Absurd you know to try To gammon _me_ with bolluses of bread; While Aqua P. I've said, Often, is good (if nothing else be nigh) To drink when thirsty and our throats are dry, But _not_ for medicine—though coloured red.
"So, Doctor, when we're by ourselves alone, Don't try to put on 'side' with me, good lack, For I can surely track Full many a 'fatal case' you'd fain disown. And _I_ can tell aright why you should groan _When harmless ducks in passing cry 'Quack! Quack!'_
* * *
The Doctor woke. "Dear me!" said he, "This skeleton's too wise For me." He therefore packed it up, And sent it off to Guy's.
XLIII. THAT OF YE LOVE-PHILTRE: AN OLD-ENGLISH LEGEND.
Sir Peter de Wynkin He loved a fair mayde, And he wooed ye fair mayde For hys bride. But ye ladye cried "no," With a toss of her head, And Sir Wynkin Disconsolate sighed.
"Now out! and alas! And alack-a-day me!" He sang him In sorrowful tones, "She loveth me not Yet, beshrew me!" said he, "There's a wizard I wot of Called—Jones."
Caldweller Ap Jones, Was a wizard of note, And he dwelt in a cave Hard at hand. Love-philtres and potions He sold for a groat, To ye rich and ye poor Of ye land.
Sir Wynkin, he sought This same wizard straightway, And he told him hys Dolorous plight. The wizard cried, "Ha! If you'll do as I say, Thys small matter Can soon be set right."
"Thys potion—a love-philtre Made extra strong— To ye ladye, by you, Must be given." "Oddzooks!" quoth Sir Wynkin. "Ye ladye ere long Shall receive it, Or e'er I be shriven."
Ye bower was high Where ye fair ladye slept, But Sir Wynkin climbed up From ye basement. By means of ye ivy He painfully crept, And ye potion placed Outside the casement.
"She'll find it," quoth he, "Ere the morrow is past. Curiosity'll prompt her To drink it. Ye magic will act, And she'll love me at last. Ah me! 'Tis sweet joy E'en to think it."
But alack! and alas! Ye endyng was sad, Ye love-philtre caused Quite a commotion. For—a toothless old grand-dame Ye fair ladye had, And _she_ found, and _she_ drank Ye love potion!!
Fell madly in love With Sir Wynkin 'tis said, And declared that ye Knight Had betrayed her. So, distraught, from ye country Sir Wynkin he fled, And he died at ye wars— A Crusader.
XLIV. THAT OF THE BARGAIN SALE.
I sing of Mrs. Tomkins-Smythe, And Mrs. Gibson-Brown; Two ladies resident within A square, near Camden Town.
Good neighbours they had been, and friends, For twenty years, or more; The Tomkins-Smythes they lived at "6," The Gibson-Browns at "4."
'Twas in that season of the year When drapers' bargain sales Do fascinate the female mind, And vex the married males.
An illustrated catalogue Arrived at "Number 4," Which Mrs. Gibson-Brown took in To show her friend next door.
"My dear!" she cried in eager tones, "_Such_ bargains! Gracious me! Here's _this_ reduced from two-and-six To one eleven-three!
"And _those_ which you remember, dear, We thought so very nice, They're selling off at really an Alarming sacrifice!"
"Those _remnants_—" Mrs. Tomkins-Smythe Remained to hear no more; She jabbed her bonnet on with pins, And hurried to the door.
A tram, a 'bus, the tupp'ny tube, And they were quickly there; And joining in the buzzing crowd Of other ladies fair.
They pulled at this, they tugged at that, They turned and tumbled those; And pushed, and crowded with the best, And trod on people's toes.
They glared at other buyers, and Forestalled them—when they could; And behaved, indeed, exactly, As _at sales_ all ladies should.
Till with heavy parcels laden, Breathless, but with keen delight, They beheld the remnant counter ("Second turning to the right.")
And (alas! how small a matter May entirely change life's view) Both in the self-same instant Saw a remnant—Navy blue.
They each reached out to take it. "'Tis mine!" they both did cry. "I saw it first, my dearest love." "No, darling, it was I."
"_My_ remnant, and I'll buy it!" "Indeed? I think you _won't_!" "Pooh! madame, I will have it!" "I'll see, ma'am, that you don't!"
And thus, and thus—oh, woesome sight— They quarrelled, nor would stop Until the shopwalker he came And turned them from the shop.
* * *
They never made the quarrel up, And now, with icy stare, They pass each other in the street With noses in the air.
XLV. THAT OF A DECEASED FLY.
(A Ballade.)
A little busy buzzy fly Before my window oft would go, I daily saw him sailing by And thought that I would like to know More of that little fly, and oh! I raised my hat, and bowed, and said, "How do!" The fly replied, "So, so!" (Alas! that little fly is dead.)
We grew quite friendly, he and I, He'd come when called—I called him Joe.— He was a most amusing fly. At evening, when the sun was low, Or, by the firelight's ruddy glow He'd hopscotch on my buttered bread Or o'er my jam, with nimble toe. (Alas! that little fly is dead.)
I saved him once, when none was by; From out the milk jug's fatal flow I fished him out, and let him dry. His gratitude he tried to show In many ways I know, I know; _But_—when upon my bald, bald head He gamboled, could I stand it? _No! Alas! that little fly is dead!_
ENVOY.
Prince. Pity, not your blame, bestow. Remember all the tears I've shed. What _could_ I do? _It tickled so._ Alas! That little fly is dead.
EPILOGUE.
There,—having sung in dulcet tones Of Brown, and Robinson, and Jones, Of poets, cannibals, and kings, Of burglars, dukes, and such like things— May kindly Fate our fortunes mend. We wish you joy. This is
Transcriber's Note
The original spelling and punctuation have been retained.
Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved.
Italicized words and phrases in the text version are presented by surrounding the text with underscores.