Chapter I: Part 1

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ABSURD DITTIES

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THESE
TO
MY FRIEND
T. FRANCIS VERE FOSTER.

G. E. F.

ABSURD DITTIES

BY

G. E. FARROW

_Author of "The Wallypug of Why" etc._

WITH PICTORIAL ABSURDITIES
BY
JOHN HASSALL

LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, LTD.
NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON AND CO.
1903

CONTENTS.

PAGE.

I. THAT OF MR. JUSTICE DEAR 1

II. THAT OF THE LATE MR. BROWN 5

III. THAT OF OUR OLD FRIEND, BISHOP P. 9

IV. THAT OF CAPTAIN ARCHIBALD MCKAN 15

V. THAT OF MATILDA 20

VI. THAT OF "DOCTHOR" PATRICK O'DOOLEY 25

VII. THAT OF MY AUNT BETSY 31

VIII. THAT OF THE TUCK-SHOP WOMAN 37

IX. THAT OF S. P. IDERS WEBBE, SOLICITOR 43

X. THAT OF MONSIEUR ALPHONSE VERT 50

XI. THAT OF LORD WILLIAM OF PURLEIGH 55

XII. THAT OF PASHA ABDULLA BEY 60

XIII. THAT OF ALGERNON CROKER 65

XIV. THAT OF——? 69

XV. THAT OF THE RIVAL HAIRDRESSERS 75

XVI. THAT OF THE AUCTIONEER'S DREAM 80

XVII. THAT OF THE PLAIN COOK 86

XVIII. THAT OF TWO MEDDLESOME PARTIES AND THEIR
RESPECTIVE FATES 91

XIX. THAT OF THE HOOLIGAN AND THE PHILANTHROPIST 98

XX. THAT OF THE SOCIALIST AND THE EARL 104

XXI. THAT OF THE RETIRED PORK-BUTCHER AND THE SPOOK 109

XXII. THAT OF THE POET AND THE BUCCANEERS 115

XXIII. THAT OF THE UNDERGROUND "SULPHUR CURE" 121

XXIV. THAT OF THE FAIRY GRANDMOTHER AND THE COMPANY
PROMOTER 127

XXV. THAT OF THE GEISHA AND THE JAPANESE WARRIOR 132

XXVI. THAT OF THE INDISCREET HEN AND THE RESOURCEFUL
ROOSTER 137

XXVII. THAT OF A DUEL IN FRANCE 141

XXVIII. THAT OF THE ASTUTE NOVELIST 146

XXIX. THAT OF THE ABSENT-MINDED LADY 151

XXX. THAT OF THE GERMAN BAKER AND THE COOK 155

XXXI. THAT OF THE CONVERTED CANNIBALS 160

XXXII. THAT OF A FRUITLESS ENDEAVOUR 164

XXXIII. THAT OF THE UNFORTUNATE LOVER 168

XXXIV. THAT OF THE FEMALE GORILLY 174

XXXV. THAT OF THE ARTIST AND THE MOTOR-CAR. (A
TRAGEDY) 179

XXXVI. THAT OF THE INCONSIDERATE NABOB AND THE LADY WHO
DESIRED TO BE A BEGUM 184

XXXVII. THAT OF DR. FARLEY, M.D., SPECIALIST IN LITTLE
TOES 188

XXXVIII. THAT OF JEREMIAH SCOLES, MISER 192

XXXIX. THAT OF THE HIGH-SOULED YOUTH 196

LX. THAT OF MR. JUSTICE DEAR'S LITTLE JOKE AND THE
UNFORTUNATE MAN WHO COULD NOT SEE IT 201

LXI. THAT OF THE LADIES OF ASCENSION ISLAND 205

LXII. THAT OF THE ARTICULATING SKELETON 208

LXIII. THAT OF YE LOVE PHILTRE: (AN OLD-ENGLISH LEGEND) 211

LXIV. THAT OF THE BARGAIN SALE 216

LXV. THAT OF A DECEASED FLY (A BALLADE) 221

EPILOGUE 224

ABSURD DITTIES.

I.
THAT OF MR. JUSTICE DEAR.

"'Tis really very, _very_ queer!"
Ejaculated Justice Dear,
"That, day by day, I'm sitting here
Without a single 'case.'
This is the twenty-second pair
Of white kid gloves, I do declare,
I've had this month. I can _not_ wear
White kids at such a pace."

His Lordship thought the matter o'er.
"Crimes ne'er have been so few before;
Not long ago, I heard a score
Of charges every day;
And now—dear me! how _can_ it be?—
And, pondering thus, went home to tea.
(He lives Bayswater way.)

A frugal mind has Justice Dear
(Indeed, I've heard folks call him "near"),
And, caring naught for jibe or jeer,
He rides home on a bus.
It singularly came to pass,
_This_ day, he chanced to ride, alas!
Beside two of the burglar class;
And one addressed him thus:

"We knows yer, Mr. Justice Dear,
You've often giv' us 'time'—d'ye hear?—
And now your pitch we're going to queer,
We criminals has _struck_!
We're on the 'honest livin' tack,
An' not another crib we'll crack,
So Justices will get the sack!
How's _that_, my legal buck?"

This gave his Lordship quite a fright,
He had not viewed it in that light.
"Dear me!" he thought, "these men are right,
I'd better smooth them down.
"Let's not fall out, my friends," said he,
"Continue with your burglarie;
Your point of view I clearly see.
Ahem! Here's half-a-crown."

The morning sun shone bright and clear
On angry Mr. Justice Dear;
His language was not good to hear;
With rage he'd like to burst.
His watch and chain, and several rings,
His silver-plate, and other things,
Had disappeared on magic wings—
_They'd burgled his house first_!

II.
THAT OF THE LATE MR. BROWN.

Life has its little ups, and downs,
As has been very truly said,
And Mr. Brown,
Of Camden Town
(Alas! the gentleman is dead),
Found out how quickly Fortune's smile
May turn to Fortune's frown;
And how a sudden rise in life
May bring a person down.

He lived—as I remarked before—
Within a highly genteel square
At Camden Town,
Did Mr. Brown
(He had been born and brought up there);
But—waxing richer year by year—
Grew prosperous and fat,
And left the square at Camden Town
To take a West End flat.

It was a very stylish flat,
With such appointments on each floor
As Mr. Brown
At Camden Town
Had never, never seen before:
Electric lights; hydraulic lifts,
To take one up and down;
And telephones _to everywhere_.
(These quite bewildered Brown.)

The elevator pleased him most;
To ride in it was perfect bliss.
"I say!" cried Brown,
"At Camden Town
We'd nothing half as good as this."
From early morn till dewy eve
He spent his time—did Brown—
In being elevated up,
And elevated down.

One night—I cannot tell you why—
When all the household soundly slept,
Poor Mr. Brown
(Late Camden Town)
Into the elevator stept;
It stuck midway 'twixt floor and floor,
And when they got it down,
They found that it was all U.—P.
With suffocated Brown.

Yes, life _is_ full of ups and downs,
As someone said in days of yore.
They buried Brown
At Camden Town
(The place where he had lived before);
And now, alas! a-lack-a-day!
In black and solemn gowns,
Disconsolate walk Mrs. Brown
And all the little Browns.

III.
THAT OF OUR OLD FRIEND BISHOP P.

(With many thanks to Mr. W. S. Gilbert for his kind assurances
that the inclusion of these verses causes him no offence.)

Twice Mr. Gilbert sang to you
Of Bishop P., of Rum-ti-foo;
Now, by your leave, I'll do that too,
Altho' I'm bound to fail
(So you will tell me to my face)
In catching e'en the slightest trace
Of true Gilbertian charm, or grace,
To decorate my tale.

Still, I will tell, as best I can,
How Bishop Peter—worthy man—
Is getting on by now.
Now where shall I begin? Let's see?
You know, I think, that Bishop P.
(Wishful to please his flock was he)
Once took the bridegroom's vow.

You doubtless recollect, His Grace
Wed Piccadil'lee of that place,
And Peterkins were born apace,
When she became his bride.
In fact I'm told that there were three,
When dusky Piccadillillee,
In odour of sanctittittee,
Incontinently died.

Some years have passed since her demise
But Bishop Peter—bless his eyes—
That saintly prelate, kind, and wise,
Is excellently well.
And, not so very long ago,
He sought to wed—this gallant beau
(His faithful flock desired it so)—
Another Island belle.

There was one difficulty, this:
Our Peter wooed a dusky Miss
Who (tho' inclined to married bliss)
Declared him rather old;
Who giggled at his bald, bald head,
And even went so far, 'tis said,
As to decline His Grace to wed,
Did Lollipoppee bold.

But, one day, on that far-off reef,
A merchant vessel came to grief,
And all the cargo—to be brief—
Was washed upon the shore.
Most of the crew, I grieve to state,
Except the Bos'un and the Mate,
Were lost. Theirs was a woesome fate,
And one we all deplore.

Amongst the wreckage on the strand,
A box of "Tatcho" came to land,
Which, there half buried in the sand,
The Bishop—singing hymns
Amongst his flock down by the shore—
Discovered, and they open tore
The case. Behold! The contents bore
The magic name of Sims.

"What! G. R. Sims?" quoth Bishop P.
(Visions of "Billy's Rose" had he),
"Good gracious now! It Sims to me
I've heard that name before."
(Oh, well bred flock! there was not one
Who did not laugh at this poor pun;
They revelled in their Bishop's fun.
They even cried "Encore!")

Then spake the Mate (whose name was Ted):
"Now this 'ere stuff, so I've 'eard said,
Will make the 'air grow on yer 'ead
As thick as any mat."
"Indeed?" quoth worthy Bishop P.;
"Then 'tis the very thing for me,
For I am bald, as you may see."
His Grace removed his hat.

The Bo'sun quickly broke the neck
Of one large bottle from the wreck,
Proceeding then His Grace to deck
With towels (careful man,
This was to save his coat of black,
For "Tatcho" running down one's back
Is clearly off its proper tack).
And then the fun began.

For Ted he rubbed the liquid through,
As hard as ever he could do.
And worthy Jack rubbed some in too
(The Bo'sun's name was Jack).
And day by day they did the same.
Now "Tatcho" ne'er belies its fame,
And soon a little hair there came
(His Lordship's hair is black).

Miss Lollipoppee views with glee
The change in worthy Bishop P.
_Now_ quite agreed to wed is she
(The banns were called to-day).
No "just cause or impediment"
Can interfere with their content;
The natives' loyal sentiment
Is summed up in "Hooray!"

IV.
THAT OF CAPTAIN ARCHIBALD McKAN.

There never lived a worthier man
Than Captain Archibald McKan.
I knew him well some time ago
(I speak of twenty years or so);
_Sans peur et sans reproche_ was he;
He was the soul of chivalry,
Was Captain Archibald McKan.

True greatness showed in all his mien,
No haughty pride in him was seen,
Though, captain of a steamer, he,
From Greenwich unto far Chelsea,
That, spite of weather, wind, and tide,
From early Spring to Autumn plied,
Brave, modest Captain A. McKan.

However sternly might his roar
Reverberate from shore to shore
Of "Ease her! Back her! Hard astern!"
His duty done, with smile he'd turn
And be most affable and mild
To every woman, man, or child
Aboard, would Captain A. McKan.

He reassured the anxious fears
Of nervous ladies—pretty dears!—
He in his pocket carried toys
And sweets for little girls and boys;
He talked in quite familiar way
With men who voyaged day by day,
Did Captain Archibald McKan.

In fact, as I've already said,
No man alive—or even dead—
Was freer from reproach than he;
And yet of Fortune's irony
(Though such a very decent sort)
This worthy man was e'en the sport.
Alas! was Captain A. McKan!

"_Cherchez la femme._" The phrase is trite,
Yet here, as usual, 'twas right.
Our Captain noted every day
A certain girl rode all the way
From Greenwich Pier to Wapping Stair.
"It _cannot_ be to take the air,"
Thought Captain Archibald McKan.

She calmly sat, with downcast eye;
And looking both demure and shy;
Yet, once, he caught a roving glance,
Which made his pulses wildly dance;
And,—though as modest as could be—
"I do believe she's gone on me,"
Considered Captain A. McKan.

"Why else should she persistently
Select _my_ boat alone?" thought he;
"I _wonder_ why she comes? I'll ask,
Though 'tis a very ticklish task."
So, walking forward with a smile,
Beside the lass he stood awhile,
Then coughed, did Captain A. McKan.

"You're frequently aboard my boat,"
Began he; "she's the best afloat;
But, pray, may I enquire, _do_ you
So _very_ much admire the view?"
"Er—moderately, sir," said she.
"Exactly so! It _must_ be _me_!"
Decided Captain A. McKan.

"Come, tell me, Miss, now no one's by,"
He whispered; "Won't you tell me why
You come so oft? There's naught to dread."
The lady looked surprised, and said:
"My husband works at Wapping Stair,
I daily take his dinner there."
_Poor_ Captain Archibald McKan!

V.
THAT OF MATILDA.

Yes, I love you, dear Matilda,
But you may not be my bride,
And the obstacles are many
Which have caused me to decide.
Firstly, what is _most_ annoying,
And I'm not above confessing,
Is, that I think you indolent,
And over-fond of dressing.
I've known you spend an hour or two
In a-sitting on a chair,
And a-fussing and attending
To your toilet or your hair.

There's another little matter—
You may say a simple thing—
Yet, Matilda, I must own it,
I object to hear you sing.
For the sounds you make in singing
Are so _very_ much like squalling,
That the only term appropriate
To them is caterwauling.
Indeed, I've never _heard_ such horrid
Noises in my life,
And I'd _certainly_ not tolerate
Such singing in a wife.

And, Matilda dear, your language!
It is really _very_ bad;
The expressions which you use at times,
They make me feel quite sad.
It is very, very shocking,
But I do not mind declaring
That I've heard some sounds proceeding
From your lips so much like swearing,
That I've had to raise a finger,
And to close at least _one_ ear,
For I couldn't feel quite certain
_What_ bad words I mightn't hear.

But worse than this, Matilda:
I hear, with pious grief,
Many rumours that Matilda
Is no better than a thief
And I'm shocked to find my darling
So entirely lost to feeling,
As to go and give her mind up
Unto picking and a-stealing.
Oh, Matilda! pray take warning,
For a prison cell doth yearn
For a person that appropriates
And takes what isn't her'n.

And the culminating blow is this:
_You stay out late at night_.
Now, Matilda dear, you must confess
To do this is _not_ right.
Where you go to, dear, or what you do,
There really is _no_ telling,
And with rage and indignation
My fond foolish heart is swelling.
Yet the faults which I've enumera-
Ted can't be wondered at,
When one realises clearly
That "Matilda"—is a _cat_.

VI.
THAT OF "DOCTHOR" PATRICK O'DOOLEY.

In the South Pacific Ocean
In an oiland called Koodoo,
An' the monarch ov thot oiland
Iz King Hulla-bulla-loo.
Oi wuz docthor to thot monarch
Wonct. Me name iz Pat O'Dooley.
Yis, you're roight. Oi come from Oirland,
From the County Ballyhooly.

An' Oi'll tell yez how Oi came to be
A docthor in Koodoo;
May the Divil burn the ind ov me,
If ivery word's not thrue.
Oi wuz sailin' to Ameriky,
Aboard the "Hilly Haully,"
Which wuz drounded in the ocean,
For the toime ov year wuz squally.

An' Oi floated on a raft, sor,
For some twinty days or more,
Till Oi cum to Koodoo Island,
Phwich Oi'd niver seen before.
But the natives ov thot counthry,
Sure, would take a lot ov batin',
For a foine young sthrappin' feller
They think moighty pleasint atin'.

An' they wint an' told the King, sor,
Him called Hulla-bulla-loo.
"Ye come from Oirland, sor?" sez he.
"Bedad!" sez Oi, "thot's true."
Thin he whispered to the cook, sor;
An' the cook he giv me warnin':
"It's Oirish _stew_ you'll be," sez he,
"To-morrow, come the marnin'."

But to-morrow, be the Powers, sor,
The King wuz moighty bad,
Wid most odjus pains insoide him,
An' they nearly drove him mad;
So he sint a little note, sor,
By the cook, apologoizin'
For not cooking me that day, sor,
Wid politeness most surprisin'!

An' Oi wrote him back a letther,
Jist expressin' my regret,
Thot Oi shouldn't hiv the honor,
Sor, ov bein' cooked an' et;
An' Oi indid up the letther
Wid a midical expresshin,
As would lead him to imagine
Oi belonged to the professhin.

Och! he sint for me _at wonct_, sor.
"If ye'll _only_ save me loife,"
Sez he, "Oi'll give yez money,
An' a most attractive woife,
An' ye won't be in the _menu_
Ov me little dinner party
If ye'll only pull me round," sez he,
"An' make me sthrong an' hearty."

So Oi made a diagnosis
Wid my penknife an' some sthring
(Though Oi hadn't got a notion
How they made the blessid thing;
But Oi knew thot docthors did it
Phwen they undertook a case, sor),
An' Oi saw his pulse, an' filt his tongue,
An' pulled a sarious face, sor.

Thin Oi troied a bit ov blarney.
"Plaze, yer gracious Madjisty,
It's yer brains iz much too big, sor,
For yer cranium, ye see."
But the King he looked suspicious,
An' he giv a moighty frown, sor.
"The pain's not there at all," sez he,
"_The pain is further down_, sor."

"Oi'm commin', sor, to thot," sez Oi.
"Lie quiet, sor, an' still,
While Oi go an' make yer Madjisty
Me cilebratid pill."
In the pocket ov me jacket
Oi had found an old ship's biscuit
("An' Oi think," sez Oi, "'twill do," sez Oi,
"At any rate Oi'll risk it").

The biscuit it wuz soft an' black
By raisin ov the wet,
An' it made the foinist pill, sor,
Thot Oi've iver seen as yet;
It wuz flavoured rayther sthrongly
Wid salt wather an' tobaccy,
But, be jabers, sor, it did the thrick,
An' _cured_ the blissid blackie!

The King wuz as deloighted,
An' as grateful as could be,
An' he got devorced from all his woives,
An' giv _the lot_ to me;
But a steamer, passin' handy,
Wuz more plazin' to "yours trooly,"
An' among the passingers aboard
Wuz the "Docthor",—Pat O'Dooley.

VII.
THAT OF MY AUNT BETSY.

You may have met, when walking out
or thereabout,
A lady (angular and plain)
Escorted by an ancient swain,
Or, possibly, by two,
Each leading by a piece of string
A lazy, fat, and pampered thing
Supposed to be a dog. You may,
Perhaps, have noticed them, I say,
And, if so, thought, "They do
Present unto the public gaze
A singular appearance—very."
That lady, doubtless, was my aunt,
Miss Betsy Jane Priscilla Perry.

The gentleman—or gentle_men_—
Attending her were Captain Venne
And Major Alec Stubbs. These two
For many years had sought to woo
My maiden aunt, Miss P.,
Who never _could_ make up her mind
Which one to marry, so was kind
To one or other—each in turn—
Thus causing jealous pangs to burn.
I incidentally
Should mention here the quadrupeds—
Respectively called "Popsey Petsey,"—
A mongrel pug;—and "Baby Heart,"—
A poodle—both belonged to Betsy.

You'd notice Captain Venne was tall,
And Major Stubbs compact and small;
These two on nought could e'er agree,
Except in this—they hated me,
Sole nephew to Aunt Bess.
My aunt was very wealthy, and
I think you'll quickly understand
The situation, when I say
That Captain Venne was on half-pay,
And Major Stubbs on _less_.
To me it was so very plain
And evident, I thought it funny
My aunt should never, never see
They wanted, not her, but her money.

And Stubbs and Venne they did arrange
A plan, intended to estrange
My aunt and me. They told her lies;
And one day, to my great surprise,
A letter came for me.
Requesting me to "call at six,"
For aunt had "heard of all the tricks
I had been up to," and "was sad
At hearing an account so bad."
I went—in time for tea.
My aunt was looking so severe
I felt confused, a perfect noodle
While Major Stubbs caressed the pug,
And Captain Venne he nursed the poodle.

"Dear Major Stubbs," my aunt began,
"Has told me all—quite all he _can_—
Of your sad goings on. Oh, fie!
Where will you go to when you die,
You naughty wicked boy?"
And Captain Venne has told me too
What _very_ dreadful things you do.
Of course I cannot but believe
My two dear friends. _They'd_ not deceive,
Nor characters destroy,
Without a cause. Go, leave me now,
You'll see my purpose shall not falter
I'll send at once for Lawyer Slymm,
My latest will to bring and alter."

I fear I lost my temper—quite;
_I know_ I said what wasn't right;
You see, I felt it hard to bear
(And really, I contend, unfair),
To be misjudged like this.
I tried to argue, but 'twas vain,
"My mind is fixed—my way is plain,"
My aunt declared. "Then hear me now!"
I hotly cried, "There's naught, I vow,
To cause you to dismiss
Your nephew thus, but, as you please.
And if, perchance, you wish to do it,
Your money leave to your two friends;
They want it, and—they're welcome to it."

I hurried out. I slammed the door.
I vowed I'd never call there more.
And neither did I, in my pride,
Till six weeks since, when poor aunt died,
And then, from Lawyer Slymm
I got a little note, which said:
"The will on Tuesday will be read."
I went, and found that "Baby Heart"
From Captain Venne must ne'er depart—
She had been left to him;
While "Popsey Petsey" Major Stubbs
Received as his sole legacy
And that was all. The money—oh!
The money—that was left to _me_.

VIII.
THAT OF THE TUCK-SHOP WOMAN.

Of all the schools throughout the land
St. Vedast's is the oldest, and
All men are proud
(And justly proud)
Who claim St. Vedast's as their _Al-
Ma mater_. There I went a cal-
Low youth. Don't think I'm going to paint
The glories of this school—I ain't.

The Rev. Cecil Rowe, M.A.,
Was classics Master in my day,
A learned man
(A worthy man)
In fact you'd very rarely see
A much more clever man than he.
But if you think you'll hear a lot
About this person,—you will not.

The porter was a man named Clarke;
We boys considered it a lark
To play him tricks
(The usual tricks
Boys play at public schools like this),
And Clarke would sometimes take amiss
These tricks. But don't think I would go
And only sing of him. Oh, no!

This ditty, I would beg to state,
Professes likewise to relate
The latter words
(The solemn words)
Of her who kept the tuck-shop at
St. Vedast's. I'd inform you that
The porter was her only son
(The reason was—she had but one).

For many years the worthy soul
Had kept the shop—the well-loved goal
Of little boys
(And larger boys)
Who bought the tarts, and ginger pop
And other things sold at her shop—
But, feebler growing year by year,
She felt her end was drawing near.

She therefore bade her son attend,
That she might whisper, ere her end,
A startling tale
(A secret tale)
That on her happiness had preyed,
And heavy on her conscience weighed
For many a year. "Alas! my son,"
She sighed, "injustice has been done.

"Let not your bitter anger rise,
Nor gaze with sad reproachful eyes
On one who's been
(You _know_ I've been)
For many years your mother, dear;
And though you think my story queer,
Believe—or I shall feel distressed—
I _thought_ I acted for the best.

"When you were but a tiny boy
(Your mother's and your father's joy),
Good Mr. Rowe
(The Revd. Rowe)
Was but a little baby too,
Who very much resembled you,
And, being poorly off in purse,
I took this baby out to nurse.

"Alike in features and in size—
So like, indeed, the keenest eyes
Would find it hard
(Extremely hard)
To tell the t'other from the one——"
"Hold! though your tale is but begun,"
The porter cried, "a man may guess
The secret of your keen distress.

"You changed the babes at nurse, and I
(No wonder that you weep and sigh),
Tho' callèd Clarke
(School Porter Clarke),
Am _really_ Mr. Rowe. I see.
And he, of course, poor man, is _me_,
While all the fortune he has known
Through these long years should be my own.

"Oh falsely, falsely, have you done
To call me all this time your son;
I've always felt
(Distinctly felt)
That I was born to better things
Than portering, and such-like, brings,
I'll hurry now, and tell poor Rowe
What, doubtless, he will feel a blow."

"Stay! stay!" the woman cried, "'tis true,
My poor ill-treated boy, that you
Have every right
(Undoubted right)
To feel aggrieved. I _had_ the chance
Your future welfare to advance
By changing babes. I knew I'd rue it,
My poor boy—but—_I didn't do it_."

IX.
THAT OF S. P. IDERS WEBBE, SOLICITOR.

Young Mr. S. P. Iders Webbe,
Solicitor, of Clifford's Inn,
Sat working in his chambers, which
Were far removed from traffic's din.
To those in legal trouble he
Lent ready ear of sympathy—
And six-and-eightpence was his fee.

To widows and to orphans, too,
Young Mr. Webbe was very nice,
And turned none from his door away
Who came to seek for his advice:
To these, I humbly beg to state—
The sad and the disconsolate—
His fee was merely six-and-eight.

He'd heave a sympathetic sigh,
And squeeze each bankrupt client's hand
While listening to a tale of woe
Salt tears within his eyes would stand.
Naught, naught his sympathies could stem,
And he would only charge—ahem!—
A paltry six-and-eight to _them_.

This gentleman, as I observed,
Was calmly seated at his work,
When, from the waiting-room, a card
Was brought in by the junior clerk.
"Nathaniel Blobbs? Pray ask him to
Step in," said Webbe. "How do you do?
A very pleasant day to you."

"A pleasant day be hanged!" said Blobbs,
A wealthy man and very stout
(That he was boiling o'er with rage
There could not be the slightest doubt).
"I'm given, sir, to understand
You're suitor for my daughter's hand.
An explanation I demand!

"I _know_ your lawyer's tricks, my man;
In courting of my daughter Jane—
Who's rather plain and not too young—
_My_ money's what _you_ seek to gain.
Confound you, sir!" the man did roar.
"My daughter Jane is no match for
A beggarly solicitor!"

At words like these _most_ gentlemen
Would really have been somewhat riled;
But do not think that Mr. Webbe
Was angry. No; he merely _smiled_.
But, oh! my friends, the legal smile
Is not to trust. 'Tis full of guile.
(_So_ smiles the hungry crocodile.)

"I see," Webbe most politely said,
"My worthy sir, _your_ point of view.
You're wealthy; I am poor. Of course,
What I proposed would never do.
If only, now, I'd property,
And _you_ were—well, as poor as _me_——"
"Pooh! that," cried Blobbs, "can _never_ be."

"Think not?" said Webbe. "Well, p'r'aps you're right.
And so—there's nothing more to say.
You _must_ be going? What! so soon?
I'm _sorry_, sir, you cannot stay!"
Blobbs went—and slammed the outer door.
Webbe calmly made the bill out for
The interview—a lengthy score.

He charged—at highest legal rate—
For every word he'd uttered; and
He even put down six-and-eight
"To asking for Miss Blobbs's hand";
Next, in the Court of Common Pleas
A "Breach of Promise" case, with ease,
He instituted—if you please.

He gained the day, because the maid
Was over age, the Judge averred,
And Blobbs was forced to "grin and pay,"
Although he vowed 'twas _most_ absurd.
The "damages," of course, were slight;
But "legal costs" by no means light.
(Webbe shared in these as was his right.)

Outside the Court indignant Blobbs
Gave vent to some expressions which
Were libellous, and quickly Webbe
Was "down on him" for "using sich."
Once more the day was Webbe's, and he,
By posing as a damagee,
Obtained a thousand pounds, you see.

With this round sum he then contrived
To buy a vacant small estate
Adjoining Blobbs, who went and did
_Something_ illegal with a gate.
Webbe "had him up" for _that_, of course;
Then something else (about a horse),
And later on a water-course.

He sued for this, he sued for that,
Till action upon action lay,
And in the Royal Courts of Law
"Webbe _versus_ Blobbs" came on each day.
"Law costs" and big "retaining fees,"
"Mulcted in fines"—such things as these
Made Blobbs feel very ill at ease.

As Webbe grew rich, so he grew poor,
Till finally he said: "Hang pride!
I'll let this fellow, if he must,
Have Jane, my daughter, for his bride."
He went once more to Clifford's Inn.
Webbe welcomed him with genial grin:
"My _very_ dear sir, pray step in."

"Look here!" cried Blobbs. "I'll fight no more!
You lawyer fellows, on my life,
_Will_ have your way. I must give in.
My daughter Jane _shall_ be your wife!"
"Dear me! this _is_ unfortunate,"
Said Webbe. "I much regret to state
Your condescension comes too late.

"For, sir, I marry this day week
(Being a man of property)
The young and lovely daughter of
Sir Simon Upperten, M.P."
Then, in a light and airy way:
"I think there's nothing more to say.
_Pray_, mind the bottom step. _Good_ day!"

X.
THAT OF MONSIEUR ALPHONSE VERT.

Your Mistair Rudyar' Kipling say
Ze cricquette man is "flannel fool."
_Ah! oui! Très bon!_ I say so too,
Since Mastair Jack, _enfant_ at school,
He show me how to play ze same.
I like it not—ze cricquette game.

My name is Monsieur Alphonse Vert
(You call him in ze English "Green");
I go to learn ze English tongue,
And lodge myself at Ealing Dean
In family of Mistair Brown,
Who has _affaire_ each day "in town."

Miss Angelina Brown she is
_Très charmante_—what you call "so pretty";
I walk and talk wiz her sometimes
When Mr. Brown go to ze City;
I fall in love (pardon zese tears)
All over head, all over ears.

I buy her books, and flowers (_bouquet_),
And tickets for _la matinée_,
And to ze cricquette match we go,
_Hélas!_ upon one Saturday.
To me she speak zere not at all.
But watch ze men, and watch ze ball.

Ze cricquette men zey run, zey bat,
Zey throw ze ball, zey catch, zey shout;
And Angelina clap her hands.
Vot for, I know not, all about,
And in myself I say "_Ah! oui!_
I _too_ a cricquette man shall be."

To Angelina's brother Jack
(His name is also Mastair Brown)
I say, "Come, teach me cricquette match,
And I will give you half-a-crown."
Jack say, "My eye!" (in French _mes yeux_)[1]
"Oh! what a treat!" (in French _c'est beau_).

After, to Ealing Common we
Go out, with "wicquette" and with "ball,"
And what Jack calls a "cricquette-bat."
(Zese tings I do not know at all;
But Angelina I would catch,
So "_Allons! Vive la cricquette match!_")

I hold ze "bat," Jack hold ze "ball."
"Now zen! Look out!" I hear him cry.
I drop ze "bat," I look about;
Ze ball—he hit me in ze eye."
I cry, "_Parbleu!_" Ze stars I see.
I think it is "all up" wiz me.

I try again. Ze "ball" is hard.
I catch him two times—on ze nose.
I run, I fall, I hurt my arm,
I spoil my new white flannel clothes,
In every part I'm bruised and sore,
So cricquette match I play no more.

I change my clothes, I patch my eye,
I tie my nose up in a sling,
And to Miss Angelina Brown
Myself and all my woes I bring.
"Ah, see," I cry, "how love can make
Alphonse a hero for thy sake."

But Angelina laugh and laugh,
And say, "I know it isn't right
To laugh; but you must please forgive
Me. You look _such_ a fright!"
And next day Jack say, "I say, Bones,
My sister's going to marry Jones."

Footnote 1:

Frenchmen could never make these two words rhyme—but Englishmen can.

I've heard 'em. G. E. F.

XI.
THAT OF LORD WILLIAM OF PURLEIGH.

Lord William of Purleigh retired for the night
With a mind full of worry and trouble,
Which was caused by an income uncommonly slight,
And expenses uncommonly double.
Now the same sort of thing often happens, to me—
And perhaps to yourself—for most singularlee
One's accounts—if one keeps 'em—will never come right,
If, of "moneys received," one spends double.

His lordship had gone rather early to bed,
And for several hours had been sleeping,
When he suddenly woke—and the hair on his head
Slowly rose—he could hear someone creeping
About in his room, in the dead of the night,
With a lantern, which showed but a glimmer of light,
And his impulse, at first, was to cover his head
When he heard that there burglar a-creeping.

But presently thinking "Poor fellow, there's naught
In the house worth a burglar a-taking,
And, being a kind-hearted lord, p'r'aps I ought,
To explain the mistake he's a-making."
Lord William, then still in his woolly night-cap
(For appearances noblemen don't care a rap),
His second-best dressing-gown hastily sought,
And got up without any noise making.

"I'm exceedingly sorry," his lordship began,
"But your visit, I fear, will be fruitless.
I possess neither money, nor jewels, my man,
So your burglaring here will be bootless.
The burglar was startled, but kept a cool head,
And bowed, as his lordship, continuing, said:
"Excuse me a moment. I'll find if I can
My warm slippers, for I _too_ am bootless."

This pleasantry put them both quite at their ease;
They discoursed of De Wet, and of Tupper.
Then the household his lordship aroused, if you please,
And invited the burglar to supper.
The burglar told tales of his hardly-won wealth,
And each drank to the other one's jolly good health.
There's a charm about informal parties like these,
And it was a most excellent supper.

Then the lord told the burglar how poor he'd become,
And of all which occasioned his lordship distress;
And the burglar—who wasn't hard-hearted like some—
His sympathy ventured thereat to express:
"I've some thoughts in my mind, if I might be so bold
As to mention them, but—no—they mustn't be told.
They are hopes which, perhaps, I might talk of to some,
But which to a lord—no, I dare not express."

"Pooh! Nonsense!" his lordship cried, "Out with it, man!
What is it, my friend, that you wish to suggest?
Rely upon me. I will do what I can.
Come! Let us see what's to be done for the best."
"I've a daughter," the burglar remarked with a sigh.
"The apple is she, so to speak, of my eye,
And she wishes to marry a lord, if she can—
And of all that I know—why, your lordship's the best.

"I am wealthy," the burglar continued, "you see,
And her fortune will really be ample:
I have given her every advantage, and she
Is a person quite up to your sample."
Lord William, at first, was inclined to look glum,
But, on thinking it over, remarked: "I will come
In the morning, to-morrow, the lady to see
If indeed she _is_ up to the sample."

On the morrow he called, and the lady he saw,
And he found her both charming and witty;
So he married her, though for a father-in-law
He'd a burglar, which p'r'aps was a pity.
However, she made him an excellent wife,
And the burglar he settled a fortune for life
On the pair. What an excellent father-in-law!
On the whole, p'r'aps, it _wasn't_ a pity.

XII.
THAT OF PASHA ABDULLA BEY.

Abdulla Bey—a Pasha—had
A turn for joy and merriment:
You never caught _him_ looking sad,
Nor glowering in discontent.

His normal attitude was one
Of calm, serene placidity;
His nature gay, and full of fun,
And free from all acidity.

A trifling instance I'll relate
Of Pasha Bey's urbanity,
The which will clearly indicate
His marvellous humanity.

He had a dozen wives or so
(In him no immorality;
For Eastern custom, as you know,
Permits, of wives, plurality).

Yes; quite a dozen wives—or more—
Abdulla had, and for a while
No sound was heard of strife or war
Within Abdulla's domicile.

But, oh! how rare it is to find
A dozen ladies who'll consent
To think as with a single mind,
And live together in content.

Abdulla's wives—altho', no doubt,
If taken individually,
Would never think of falling out,—
Collectively, could _not_ agree.

At first, in quite a playful way,
They quarrelled—rather prettily;
Then cutting things contrived to say
About each other wittily;

Then petty jealousies and sneers
Began,—just feeble flickerings—
Which grew, alas! to bitter tears,
And fierce domestic bickerings.

_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.