Chapter 5

The poor MARKISS was so horryfied at his brillyant sucksess, that CHARLES's sanguinery corpse aunted his bed-side, and he died within a munth, a leetle munth, as _Amlet_ says, of the dredful ewent, and CHARLES married his Widder. But, orful to relate, within a werry short time CHARLES was a sorrowin Widderer, with a nincum of sum £10,000 a year; and having purchased a Itallien titel for a hundred and fifty pound, it is said as he intends shortly to return to hold Hingland; and as the lovely Countess of BELGRAVIER is fortnetly becum a Widder, and a yung one, it is thought quite posserbel, by them as is behind the seens, like myself, for instance, that before many more munce is past and gone, there will be one lovely Widder and one andsum Widderer less than there is now; and we is all on us ankshushly looking forred to the day wen the gallant Count der WENNIS shall lead his lovely Bride to the halter of St. George's, Hannower Squeer, thus proving the truth of the Poet's fabel,--

"The rank is but the guinny's stamp, The Footman's the man for a' that."

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WHERE ARE OUR DAIRYMAIDS?

A SONG OF VANISHED SUMMER.

["What has become of our Dairymaids?"--_Newspaper Question._]

AIR--"_THE DUTCHMAN'S LITTLE DOG_."

O where and O where is our Dairymaid gone? O where, O where can she be? With her skirts cut short and her hair cut long, O where, and O where is she?

Well, Summer is gone, and so is the Sun, And farming is nought but a bilk. When our Butter is Dutch, and our Cheese is Yank, Why, why should they leave us our Milk?

Our brave Queen BESS, as the Laureate says,[1] Might wish that a milkmaid were she; Whilst MAUDLIN in WALTON's bucolical days Could troll forth her ballad with glee.

But, alas! for the days of the stool and the churn, And the milking-pails brass-bound and bright! There is much to do and but little to earn In the Dairy, once IZAAK's delight.

Now Companies deal with the lacteal yield, And churns clank o' night at Vauxhall, Who dreams with delight of the buttercup'd field, Or Dun Suke in her sweet-smelling stall?

Milking the Cow, and churning the milk Made work for the maids long ago, But possible Dairymaids now dress in silk, _That's_ where our Dairymaids go.

Ah! DOLLY becomes a mechanical drudge, And SALLY--a something much worse. Through cowslip-pied meadows to merrily trudge Won't fill a maid's heart, or her purse.

The meadow at eve and the dairy at morn, And a song--from KIT MARLOW--between, Would fire a fine-dressed modern MAUDLIN with scorn, And move modish MOLLY to spleen.

The Dairymaid's true "golden age" is long fled With Summer, and pippins and cream; Like little _Bo-Peep_ and _Boy-Blue_, it is dead, Save as parts of a pastoral dream.

O where and O where is our Dairymaid gone? O where, and O where can she be? Well, they make cockney shop-girls of PHILLIS and JOAN, And I guess that they make such with _she_!

[Footnote 1:

"I would I were a milkmaid To sing, love, marry, churn, brew, bake and die."

TENNYSON's _Queen Mary_.]

* * * * *

A MATTER OF CORSET.--At Sydenham, Ontario (it is stated), the Corset has been declared to be "incompatible with Christianity!" If some of our fashionable dames uttered their innermost feelings, they would doubtless reply, "So much the worse for--Christianity." It is so obvious that many modish Mammas care much more for their daughters' bodices than their souls.

* * * * *

* * * * *

THE GUZZLING CURE.

[Sir DYCE DUCKWORTH, in a letter written to a Vegetarian Correspondent, says, "I believe in the value of animal food and alcoholic drinks for the best interests of man. The abuse or misuse of either is another matter."]

O plump Head-waiter, I have read What worthy DUCKWORTH writes! And that is why I've swiftly sped To where your door invites. I kept my indigestion down Of old, by sheer starvation; But now no longer shall I frown On food assimilation.

I pledge him in your oldest port, _This_ medical adviser, For vainly elsewhere might be sought A cheerier or a wiser, He bids me speedily return To ordinary diet-- A sage prescription!--and I burn To chance results, and try it!

I've lived on air; on food for Lent; On what some Doctor calls "Nitrogenous environment"-- A fare that quickly palls. I'll eat the chops I once did eat; All care and thought I banish; And with this unexpected treat My old dyspeptics vanish.

What though they warn me that at first-- It may be merely fancy-- The stomach's sure to try its worst In base recalcitrancy? When half-starved gastric juice is set To cope with dainty dishes, The outcome--one may safely bet-- Won't be just what one wishes.

This earth is rich in chemists' shops, With doctors it abounds, Who, if I feel the change from slops, Will take me on their rounds. So, scorning indigestive ache, I count each anxious minute; Oh, waiter, hurry up that steak! My happiness is in it.

* * * * *

ANNALS OF A WATERING-PLACE

THAT "HAS SEEN ITS DAY."

I do not know when Torsington-on-Sea's day precisely was, or, whether indeed its day has yet dawned, but I was sent there by my medical adviser as being _the very place_ for me, it being "delightfully quiet", nine miles from a railway station, which apparently means in plain English twenty-four hours behind the rest of this habitable globe, and generally stranded in the race for every conceivable comfort or necessity with which an age of Co-operative Stores and Electric Lighting has made one comfortably--perhaps too comfortably--familiar. Judging, however, from the fact that Torsington-on-Sea consists mainly of a pretentious architectural effort consisting of six-and-thirty palatial sea-side residences, twenty-four of which are let in sets of furnished apartments to highly respectable families, and twelve of which appear, from want of funds, to have stopped short in their infancy many years ago at the basement, showing a weed-covered foundation of what might, had the over-sanguine capitalist not overshot the initial mark, have proved as fine a sea-side terrace on the South East Coast as the weary cockney eye could well hope to light upon, it would be including the fact that there is but one policeman to protect the lives and properties of the inhabitants and strangers of Torsington-on-Sea, by day and by night, and a town band (with a uniform) of five, of which two-fifths are, I was going to say "armed" with cymbals, triangle and with big and side drums, it would be more reasonable to suppose that Torsington-on-Sea had seen its day, and that what glories it ever had may be regarded as having departed with the vanished years.

Beyond the stock recreation afforded by the militarily-apparelled Town Band of five, whose _répertoire_ appears to be confined to a sad and serious opening march, a rather lugubrious galop, and a couple of valses and a quick-step Polka, which evidently owe their origin to the genius of the Conductor, the entertainment offered by Torsington-on-Sea must be further sought for from a donkey-chair, the donkey attached to which has many a long year ago lost what it ever possessed in the shape of "spirit," a cast-off Nigger Minstrel, with a concertina that is somewhat out of order, and a lovely "public-house" tenor, who is heard only after dark, but with a voice so sweet and true in tone, that one wonders how it is that instead of thrilling the High Street of Torsington-on-Sea for possibly the few halfpence he picks up in that rather unappreciative thoroughfare, he is not simultaneously rushed at and eagerly caught up by the leading _impressarios_ of all the continental opera-houses in Europe!

Then there is the daily arrival of the "coach," for such is the faded yellow omnibus styled, that meets the London train from Boxminster, which pulls up with a flourish at the "Three Golden Cups." There is seldom anything brought by this noteworthy conveyance, unless it be a package or parcel for Mr. DUNSTABLE, the one highly respectable tradesman in the town. DUNSTABLE's is _the_ emporium _par excellence_ where anything, from a patent drug down to the latest new novel, can be ordered down from Town. There is a tradition that old GEORGE THE THIRD, when passing through Torsington in the year 1793, stopped at DUNSTABLE's for some boot-laces, and, patting the grandfather of the present proprietor on the head, said, "What! what! none in stock! Then I think we must have some of these pretty curls instead." Anyhow, that is given as the reason for the style and title of "Dunstable's _Royal_ Library and Reading Room," which it has enjoyed without dispute from the commencement of the present century to the present day.

I came here, as I said, by the advice of my medical adviser, to "pick up." How far Torsington-on-Sea has helped me to do this, I must deal with subsequently.

* * * * *

IGNORANT BLISS.

At noon through the open window Comes the scent of the new-mown hay. I look out. In the meadow yonder Are the little lambs at play. They are all extremely foolish, Yet I haven't the heart to hint That over the boundary wall there grows A beautiful bed of mint. For a little lamb Will run to its mam. And will say "O! dam," At a hint, however well intentioned, When the awful name of mint is mentioned.

At the close of day the burglar comes For to ply his gentle trade. I fondly gaze on his jemmy, and Grow timid and quite afraid. I wouldn't for kingdoms have him know That my neighbours of titled rank Went abroad on a sudden last night and left Their jewels at COUTTS's Bank. For a burglar bold Grows harsh and cold When he finds he's sold, And his burglar's bosom heaves at knowing That the sell of a swag isn't worth the stowing.

I'm a poet--you may not know it, But I am and hard up for "tin," So I've written these clever verses And I hope they'll get put in. Yet Life is an awful lottery With a gruesome lot of blanks, And I wish the Editor hadn't slips That are printed "Declined with Thanks." For it's rather hard On a starving bard When his last trump card Is played, and he wishes himself bisected When his Muse's lays come back--rejected!

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STORICULES.

III.--THE DEAR OLD LADY.

There were three of them in the railway-carriage. One was a Stockbroker; one was a Curate; one was an Old Lady. They had been strangers to each other when they started; but it was near the end of the journey, and they were chatting pleasantly together now. One could see that the little Old Lady was from the country; she was exquisitely neat and simple in appearance; there was an air of primness about her which one rarely sees in a city product. She carried a big bunch of hedgerow flowers. She seemed to be a little nervous about travelling, and still more nervous about encountering the noise and confusion of the great city. She had asked the Stockbroker and Curate a good many questions about the sights that she ought to see, and how much she ought to pay the cabman, and which were the best shops. "Not but what TOM will look after me," she explained; "Tom's a very good son to me, and he'll be waiting on the platform for me. And such a boy as he was too when he was younger! Fruit! There wasn't anything that boy wouldn't do to get it--any kind of mischief." She grew garrulous on the subject of Tom's infancy. The two men answered her questions, and listened amusedly to her chatter. Occasionally they interchanged smiles. Presently the train got near to the station just before the terminus. The Curate warned the Old Lady that the tickets would be collected there.

"Thank you, Sir," she said, "for telling me. Then I must be getting my ticket ready. I've got it quite safely. Such a lot of money it did seem to pay for a ride to London! But TOM _would_ have me come. He never forgets his old Mother." She undid her reticule and took out her purse; she undid the purse and took out a folded paper; she unfolded the paper and took out the ticket. Then she put the paper back in the purse, and the purse back in the reticule. She held the ticket gingerly between two fingers of her cotton-gloved hand, as if it were a delicate fruit, and she were afraid of rubbing the bloom off it.

"What a refreshing contrast to our city ways!" thought the Stockbroker.

"_How_ characteristic!" thought the Curate.

"My word! there's one of my hair-pins coming out," said the Old Lady, suddenly. The hand which held the ticket flew to the back of her head, to put the hair-pin right.

And then, all at once, the look of animation died out of the Old Lady's face. She seemed utterly aghast and horror-stricken. She gasped out an unintelligible interjection.

"What's the matter, Ma'am?" asked the Stockbroker.

"My ticket's gone! I was putting that hair-pin right, and the ticket slipped out of my fingers, and dropped down the back of my neck between my clothes and--and myself. What _shall_ I do when that gentleman comes for the tickets?"

The Curate blushed violently. In his boyhood's days he had put halfpennies down the back of his neck and jumped up and down until they percolated out in the region of his boots. He had only just checked himself in the act of advising the Old Lady to get up and jump.

The Stockbroker was more practical, and soon consoled her. He was a season-ticket-holder, and knew the collector. He would explain it to the man. "You'll be able to get the ticket again, you see, when you--I mean, later on." The British love of euphemism had asserted itself. "And then you can send it to the collector by post. You had better write down your name and address to give him. I'll guarantee to the collector that it will be all right."

The Old Lady overwhelmed him with thanks. Slowly and laboriously she wrote the name and address on the piece of paper in which the ticket was folded. All happened just as the Stockbroker had foretold. The Ticket-collector was very well satisfied and very much amused.

TOM was waiting for her at the terminus, and took charge of her at once.

"Ah!" said the Stockbroker to the Curate, when she had gone, "that's my notion of a dear Old Lady."

"Everything about her was _so_ characteristic," answered the Curate, admiringly.

Neither the Curate nor the Stockbroker had the advantage of hearing what the dear Old Lady said to Tom that afternoon.

"It came off just beautifully, my boy. Not that I blame _them_, mind you,--how were they to know that it was a ticket which I didn't give up last year, and that I hadn't even taken a ticket at all to-day? No, I don't blame them. As for the address, I put the same address that was on the label of the Curate's bag, only I altered The Rev. CHARLES MARLINGHURST to Mrs. MARLINGHURST. And the Stockbroker guaranteed that I should send either the ticket or the money. So he'll have to pay up! Oh, my word! My gracious word, what a treat!"

The dear Old Lady chuckled contentedly.

Tom also chuckled.

The Stockbroker subsequently relinquished to a great extent his habit of remarking upon his own marvellous intuition, enabling him to read character at sight; the Curate preached a capital sermon on the deceptiveness of man, and when he said man he meant woman.

* * * * *

TO A TOO-ENGAGING MAIDEN.

I think you should know I've been put out of humour By something I hear very nearly each day. In a small town like ours, as you know, every rumour Gets about in a truly remarkable way. It is too much to hope for that women won't prattle, But I candidly tell you, I do feel enraged When I find that a part of their stock tittle-tattle Is that we--how I laugh at the thought!--are engaged.

Though you don't even claim to be reckoned as pretty, You are not, I admit it, aggressively plain. You dress pretty well, and your talk, if not witty, As a rule doesn't give me much positive pain. You will one day be rich, for your prospects are "healthy," Yet as Beauty and Riches do not make up Life, Why, were you as lovely as Venus, as wealthy As Croesus I wouldn't have _you_ for my wife.

Are you free altogether from blame in the matter-- I'm resolved to be frank, so it's useless to frown-- Have you not had a share in the mischievous chatter Which makes our "engagement" the talk of the town? When some eager, impertinent person hereafter Shall inquire of its truth, and shall ask, "Is it so?" Instead of implying assent by your laughter, Would you kindly oblige me by answering, "No"?

I recognise freely your marvellous kindness In allowing your name to be linked with my own. Maybe it is only incurable blindness To your charms that compels me to let them alone. But if with reports I am still to be harried, I've thoroughly made up my mind what to do; Just to settle it all, I shall shortly be married, I shall shortly be married, but not--_not_ to you.

* * * * *

"WHO BREAKS PAYS."--"In some large restaurants," says the _Daily Chronicle_, "the girls engaged have to pay for the breakages which occur in the course of carrying on a business in which they are not partners." If the maxim at the head of this paragraph were strictly and impartially enforced, such exacting employers would have to pay pretty smartly for certain "breakages" which occur in the carrying on of a business in which they consider _they_ have no concern--breakages, to wit, of the girls' health, spirits, and, often, hearts!

* * * * *

MODERN VERSION OF "WISE MEN OF THE EAST."--The Congress of Orientalists.

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NOTICE.--Rejected Communications or Contributions, whether MS., Printed Matter, Drawings, or Pictures of any description, will in no case be returned, not even when accompanied by a Stamped and Addressed Envelope, Cover, or Wrapper. To this rule there will be no exception.