Chapter II: Part 2

And Obadiah coughed because
Phipps looked at Emily—she at him.
Maria likewise noticed it,
And thereupon grew stern and grim,
Though neither one of all the four
Had met the other one before.

Now Emily Green was pretty, but
Maria—she was the reverse;
While Obadiah's looks were tra-
Gic—something like Macbeth's, but worse.—
And these two somehow seemed to be
Quite down on Phipps, and Miss E. G.

For when _she_ smiled, and kindly passed
The salt—which Phipps had asked her for—
Maria tossed her head and sniffed,
And Obadiah muttered "Pshaw!"
While later on Miss E. G. thinks
She heard Maria call her "minx."

Twice on the upper deck when Phipps
Just ventured, in a casual way,
To pass appropriate remarks,
Or comment on the "perfect" day,
He caught Maria listening, and,
Close by, saw Obadiah stand.

At last, at Margate by the Sea,
The "Royal Sovereign" came to port.
Phipps hurried off and soon secured
A lodging very near The Fort
(He'd understood Miss Green to say
That she should lodge somewhere that way).

He really _was_ annoyed to find
That Obadiah came there too,
While Miss Maria, opposite,
The parlour blinds was peering through.
Still he felt very happy, for
He saw Miss Green arrive next door.

That night he met her on the pier,
And Phipps, of course, he raised his hat.
Miss Emily Green blushed, smiled, and stopped—
It was not to be wondered at.
But Obadiah, passing by,
Transfixed them with his eagle eye.

And, later in the evening, when
The two were list'ning to the band,
Phipps—tho' perhaps he oughtn't to—
Was gently squeezing Emily's hand.
He dropped it suddenly, for there
Maria stood, with stony stare.

'Twas so on each succeeding day.
Whate'er they did, where'er they went,
There Obadiah followed them;
Maria, too. No _accident_
Could possibly account for this
Sad interference with their bliss.

At last Phipps, goaded to despair,
Cried: "Pray, sir—_what_, sir, do you wish?"
But Obadiah turned away,
Merely ejaculating "Pish!"
Then Phipps addressed Maria too,
And all he got from _her_ was "Pooh!"

So Mr. Phipps and Emily Green
Determined _something must be done_.
And all one day they talked it o'er,
From early morn till setting sun.
Then, privately, the morrow fixed
For joining in the bathing,—mixed.

They knew that Obadiah would
Be present, and Maria too.
They were; and his machine was "8,"
Maria's Number "22."
They each stood glaring from their door,
Some little distance from the shore.

The tide came in, the bathers all—
Including Phipps and Emily Green—
Each sought his own—his very own—
Particu_lar_ bath_ing_-machine;
But Nos. "22" and "8"
Were left, unheeded, to their fate.

When, one by one, the horses drew
The other machines to the shore,
_Phipps bribed the men to leave those two
Exactly where they were before_.
(In "8," you know, was Obadiah,
And "22" contained Maria.)

The tide rose higher, carrying
The two machines quite out to sea.
The love affairs of Emily Green
And Phipps proceeded happily.

* * *

I'm not quite certain of the fate
Of either "22" or "8."

XIX.
THAT OF THE HOOLIGAN AND THE PHILANTROPIST.

Bill Basher was a Hooligan,
The terror of the town,
A reputation he possessed
For knocking people down;
On unprotected persons
Of a sudden he would spring,
And hit them with his buckle-belt,
Which hurt like anything.

One day ten stalwart constables
Bill Basher took in charge.
"We cannot such a man," said they,
"Permit to roam at large;
He causes all the populace
To go about in fear;
We'd better take him to the Court
Of Mr. Justice Dear."

To Mr. Justice Dear they went—
A tender Judge was he:
He was a great Philanthropist
(Spelt with a big, big "P").
His bump—phrenologists declared—
Of kindness was immense;
Altho' he somewhat lacked the bump
Of common, common sense.

"Dear, dear!" exclaimed the kindly Judge
A-looking very wise,
"Your conduct in arresting _him_
Quite fills me with surprise.
Poor fellow! Don't you see the lit-
Tle things which he has done
Were doubtless but dictated
By a sense of harmless fun?

"We really _mustn't_ be too hard
Upon a man for _that_,
And _I_ will not do more than just
Inflict a fine. That's flat!
See how he stands within the dock,
As mild as any lamb.
No! Sixpence fine. You are discharged.
_Good_ morning, Willi_am_."

Now strange to say, within a week,
Bill Basher had begun
To knock about a lot of other
People "just in fun."
He hit a young policeman
With a hammer on the head,
Until the poor young fellow
Was approximately dead.

"Good gracious!" murmured Justice Dear,
"_This_ really is _too_ bad,
To hit policemen on the head
Is not polite, my lad,
I must remand you for a week
To think what can be done,
And, in the meantime, please remain
In cell one twenty one."

Then, Justice Dear, he pondered thus:
"Bill Basher ought to wed
Some good and noble woman;
_Then_ he'd very soon be led
To see the error of his ways,
And give those errors o'er."
This scheme he thought upon again,
And liked it more and more.

A daughter had good Justice Dear,
Whose name was Angeline
(The lady's name is not pronounced
To rhyme with "line," but "leen"),
Not beautiful, but dutiful
As ever she could be;
_Whatever_ her papa desired
She _did_ obediently.

With her he talked the matter o'er,
And told her that he thought,
In the interests of humanity,
To marry Bill she ought.
And, though she loved a barrister
Named Smith, her grief she hid
And, with a stifled sigh, prepared
To do as she was bid.

They got a special licence, and
Together quickly went
To visit Basher in his cell
And show their kind intent.

* * *

His answer it was to the point,
Though couched in language queer,
_These_ were the very words he used:
"_Wot?_ Marry _'er_? No fear!"

Good Justice Dear was greatly shocked;
Indeed, it _was_ a blow
To find that _such_ ingratitude
The Hooligan should show.
So he gave to Smith, the barrister,
His daughter for a wife,
While on Bill he passed this sentence—
"Penal servitude for life."

XX.
THAT OF THE SOCIALIST AND THE EARL.

It was, I think, near Marble Arch,
Or _somewhere_ in the Park,
A Socialist
Once shook his fist
And made this sage remark:

"It is a shime that working men,
The likes of you and me—
Poor, underfed,
Without a bed—
In such a state should be.

"When bloated aristocracy
Grows daily wuss an' wuss.
Why don't the rich
Behave as sich
An' give a bit to us?

"They've carriages and flunkeys,
Estates, an' lots of land.
_Why_ this should be,
My friends," said he,
"I fail to understand.

"Why should _they_ 'ave the bloomin' lot,
When, as I've said before,
It's understood
_This_ man's as good
As _that_ one is—or MORE?

"So what I sez, my friends, sez I,
Is: Down with all the lot,
Unless they share—
It's only fair—
With us what they have got!"

* * *

An Earl, who stood amongst the crowd,
Was _very_ much impressed.
"Dear me," he said,
And smote his head,
"I really _am_ distressed.

"To think that all these many years
I've lived so much at ease,
With leisure, rank,
Cash at the bank,
And luxuries like these,

"While, as this honest person says,
_Our_ class is all to blame
That these have naught:
We really ought
To bow our heads in shame.

"My wealth unto this man I'll give,
My title I will drop,
And then I'll go
And live at Bow
And keep a chandler's shop."

* * *

The Socialist he took the wealth
The Earl put in his hands,
And bought erewhile
A house in style
And most extensive lands.

Was knighted (for some charity
Judiciously bestowed);
Within a year
Was made a Peer;
To fame was on the road.

But do not think that Fortune's smiles
From friends drew him apart,
Or hint that rude
Ingratitude
Could dwell within his heart.

You fear, perhaps, that he forgot
The worthy Earl. Ah, no!
Household supplies
He _often_ buys
From _his_ shop down at Bow.

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

I may as well
Proceed to tell
About a Mister Higgs,
Who grew quite rich
In trade—the which
Was selling pork and pigs.

From trade retired,
He much desired
To rank with gentlefolk,
So bought a place
He called "The Chase,"
And furnished it—old oak.

Ancestors got
(Twelve pounds the lot,
In Tottenham Court Road);
A pedigree—
For nine pounds three,—
The Heralds' Court bestowed.

Within the hall,
And on the wall,
Hung armour bright and strong.
"To Ethelbred"—
The label read—
De Higgs, this did belong."

'Twas _quite_ complete,
This country seat,
Yet neighbours stayed away.
Nobody called,—
Higgs was blackballed,—
Which caused him great dismay.

"Why _can_ it be?"
One night said he
When thinking of it o'er.
There came a knock
('Twas twelve o'clock)
Upon his chamber door.

Higgs cried, "Come in!"
A vapour thin
The keyhole wandered through.
Higgs rubbed his eyes
In mild surprise:
A ghost appeared in view.

"I beg," said he,
"You'll pardon me,
In calling rather late.
A family ghost,
I seek a post,
With wage commensurate.

"I'll serve you well;
My 'fiendish yell'
Is certain sure to please.
'Sepulchral tones,'
And 'rattling bones,'
I'm _very_ good at these.

"Five bob I charge
To roam at large,
With 'clanking chains' _ad lib._;
I do such things
As 'gibberings'
At one-and-three per gib.

"Or, by the week,
I merely seek
Two pounds—which is not dear;
Because I need,
Of course, _no_ feed,
_No_ washing, and _no_ beer."

Higgs thought it o'er
A bit, before
He hired the family ghost,
But, finally,
He did agree
To give to him the post.

It got about—
You know, no doubt,
How quickly such news flies—
Throughout the place,
From "Higgses Chase"
Proceeded ghostly cries.

The rumour spread,
Folks shook their head,
But dropped in one by one.
A bishop came
(Forget his name),
And then the thing was done.

For afterwards
_All_ left their cards,
"Because," said they, "you see,
One who can boast
A family ghost
Respectable _must_ be."

* * *

When it was due,
The "ghostes's" screw
Higgs raised—as was but right—
They often play,
In friendly way,
A game of cards at night.

XXII.
THAT OF THE POET AND THE BUCCANEERS.

It does not fall to every man
To be a minor poet,
But Inksby-Slingem he was one,
And wished the world to know it.
In almost every magazine
His dainty verses might be seen.

He'd take a piece of paper—blank,
With nothing writ upon it—
And soon a triolet 'twould be
A ballade, or a sonnet.
Pantoums,—in fact, whate'er you please,
This poet wrote, with greatest ease.

By dozens he'd turn poems out,
To Editors he'd bring 'em,
Till, quite a household word became
The name of Inksby-Slingem.
A mild exterior had he,
With dove-like personality.

His hair was dark and lank and long,
His necktie large and floppy
(_Vide_ his portrait in the sketch
"A-smelling of a Poppy"),
And unto this young man befell
The strange adventure I'll now tell.

He took a summer holiday
Aboard the good ship "Goschen,"
Which foundered, causing all but he
To perish, in the ocean,
And many days within a boat
Did Inksby-Slingem sadly float—

Yes, many days, until with joy
He saw a ship appearing;
A skull and crossbones flag it bore,
And towards him it was steering.
"This rakish-looking craft," thought he,
"I fear a pirate ship must be."

It was. Manned by a buccaneer.
And, from the very first, he
Could see the crew were wicked men,
All scowling and bloodthirsty;
Indeed, he trembled for his neck
When hoisted to their upper deck.

Indelicate the way, at least,
That he was treated—very.
They turned his pockets inside-out;
They stole his Waterbury;
His scarf-pin, and his golden rings,
His coat and—er—his _other things_.

Then, they ransacked his carpet-bag,
To add to his distresses,
And tumbled all his papers out,
His poems, and MSS.'s.
He threw himself upon his knees,
And cried: "I pray you, spare me these!"

"These? What are these?" the Pirate cried.
"I've not the slightest notion."
He read a verse or two—and then
Seemed filled with strange emotion.
He read some more; he heaved a sigh;
A briny tear fell from his eye.

"Dear, dear!" he sniffed, "how touching is
This poem 'To a Brother!'
It makes me think of childhood's days,
My old home, and my mother."
He read another poem through,
And passed it to his wondering crew.

_They_ read it, and all—all but two—
Their eyes were soon a-piping;
It was a most affecting sight
To see those pirates wiping
Their eyes and noses in their griefs
On many-coloured handkerchiefs,

* * *

To make a lengthy story short,
The gentle poet's verses
Quite won those men from wicked ways,
From piratings, and curses;
And all of them, so I've heard tell,
Became quite, _quite_ respectable.

All—all but two, and one of _them_
Than e'er before much worse is
For _he_ is now a publisher,
And "pirates" Slingem's verses;
The other drives a "pirate" 'bus,
Continuing—alas!—to "cuss."

XXIII.
THAT OF THE UNDERGROUND "SULPHUR CURE."

Sulphuric smoke doth nearly choke
That person—more's the pity—
Who does the round, by Underground,
On pleasure, or on business bound,
From West End to the City.

At Gower Street I chanced to meet,
One day, a strange old party,
Who tore his hair in wild despair,
Until I thought—"I would not swear,
That you're not mad, my hearty."

"Yes, mad, _quite_ mad. Dear me! How sad!"
I cried; for, to the porter,
He did complain—"Look here! Again
_No smoke_ from any single train
That's passed within the quarter.

"_This air's too pure!_ I cannot cure
My patients, if you don't, sir,
Sulphuric gas allow to pass,
Until it thickly coats the glass.
Put up with _this_ I won't, sir!"

I noticed then some gentlemen
And ladies join the chatter—
And dear, dear, dear, they _did_ look queer!
Thought I—"They're very ill, I fear;
I wonder what's the matter."

Surmise was vain. In came my train.
I got in. "First"—a "Smoking."
That motley crew—_they got in too_.
I wondered what on earth to do,
For each began a-choking.

"Pray, won't you smoke?" the old man spoke.
Thought I—"He's growing madder."
"I wish you would. 'Twould do them good.
My card I'd hand you if I could,
But have none. My name's Chadder.

"My patients these. _Now_, if you please!"
He cried, in tones commanding,
And gave three raps, "I think, perhaps,
We'd best begin. Undo your wraps!"
_This_ passed my understanding.

"Put out your tongues! Inflate your lungs!"
His patients all got ready;
Their wraps thrown off, they each did doff
Their respirator—spite their cough—
And took breaths long and steady.

"Inhale! Inhale! And do not fail
The air you take to swallow!"
They gasped, and wheezed, and coughed, and sneezed.
Their "doctor," he looked mighty pleased.
Expecting me to follow.

"Pray, tell me why, good sir!" gasped I,
"Before I lose my senses,
Why ever you such strange things do?
To know this, I confess my cu-
Riosity immense is."

In accents mild he spoke, and smiled.
"Delighted! I assure you.
_We take the air_—nay! do not stare;
Should aught your normal health impair,
This 'sulphur cure' will cure you.

"I undertake, quite well to make
Patients,—_whate'er_ they're ailing.
Each day we meet, proceed _en suite_
From Edgware Road to Gower Street,
And back again—_inhaling_.

"That sulphur's good, 'tis understood,
But, I would briefly mention,
The simple way—as one may say,—
In which _we_ take it, day by day,
Is _quite my own invention_.

"Profits? Ah, yes, I must confess
I make a tidy bit, sir?
Tho' Mr. Perkes', and Mr. Yerkes
'S system—if it only works—
Will put a stop to it, sir."

A stifled sigh, a tear-dimmed eye
Betrayed his agitation.
"Down here there'll be no smoke," said he,
"When run by electricity.
Excuse me! Here's our station!"

He fussed about, and got them out,
(Those invalids I mean, sir,)
Then raised his hat; I bowed at that,
And then, remaining where I sat,
Went on to Turnham Green, sir.

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

A Company Promoter was Septimus Sharpe,
And the subject is he of this ditty;
He'd his name—nothing more—
Painted on the glass door
Of an office high up on the toppermost floor
Of a house in Throgmorton Street, City.

The Companies which he had promoted, so far,
Had not—so to speak,—been successes.
As a matter of fact,
He had often to act
In a manner requiring considerable tact
To—financially—keep out of messes.

One day there appeared—Sharpe could never tell how,—
In a costume unusually airy,
A young lady. "Dear me!
How surprising!" said he.
"Now, who upon earth can this young person be?
Is it possible? Why! _it's a Fairy_!"

"You are right, Septimus," said the Fairy—"quite right,
For, in fact, I'm your Fairy Grandmother!"
Sharpe had to confess,
"I already possess
Two grandmothers. But," said he, "nevertheless,
In _your_ case, I will welcome another.

"Especially if, Fairy Grandmother dear,
Your intentions are—pardon me,—golden.
I'll be pleased, if my till—
Or my coffers—you'll fill,
As,—like a good fairy,—I've no doubt you will;
_Then_ to you I'll be greatly beholden."

The Fairy she smiled, as, quite sweetly, she said:
"You're mistaken, my dear young relation.
There's no fairy displays
In these up-to-date days,
Her powers in _such_ crude and old-fashioned ways—
No! I bring you AN IMAGINATION.

"But exercise IT, and you quickly will find
From your pathway all troubles are banished!"
She waved a small wand,
With a look sad yet fond,
Then, into the far and the distant "beyond"
Sharpe's good Grandmother suddenly vanished.

The spell she had cast very quickly began
In his brain to engender a vision.
He _imagined_ a MINE
Filled with gold, pure and fine,
And a lovely PROSPECTUS began to design
Every item worked out with precision.

He _imagined_ BIG DIVIDENDS; profits galore;
And some DUKES he _imagined_ DIRECTORS.
And "the PUBLIC should share,"
He went on to declare,
"In such wealth as should cause the whole nation to stare."
There were THOUSANDS—_in Shares_—for Projectors.

Then he went on _imagining_ mine after mine,
With Prospectuses most high-faluting.
And the _Public_ they _fought_
For the Shares he had brought
To the Market (they "safer than houses" were thought);
And each day some new Company was mooting.

* * *

(EXTRA SPECIAL.)

That he grew passing rich is a matter of course.
All his wealth to his wife he made over.

* * *

There has been a great smash;
Company's gone with a crash.
Gone also, I hear, has the shareholders' cash.
But, SEPTIMUS SHARPE—_he's_ in clover.

XXV.
THAT OF THE GEISHA AND THE JAPANESE
WARRIOR.

An almond-eyed maiden was pretty Jes-So,
Her effort in life was to please;
A Geisha was she, and she handed the tea
In a costume bewitching as ever could be,
And a style which was best Japanese;
And she often served bowls of exceptional size
To a Japanese warrior called Li-Kwize.

And daily Li-Kwize and the pretty Jes-So,
In their artless and Japanese way,
'Neath the Gom-bobble trees rubbed their hands o'er their knees,
Saying flattering things, such as over the seas,
It's the proper and right thing to say:
Little wonder, in sooth, that Li-Kwize fell in love,
While the Japanese turtle-birds twittered above.

But 'tis said that the course of true love ne'er ran smooth,
And a rival appeared on the scene,
He'd a glass in his eye, and his collar was high,
His gloves were immaculate, so was his tie,
And his legs were excessively lean;
A descendant was he of a long line of "Dooks,"
And his name was Lord Algernon Perkyns de Snooks.

In Japan,—on a tour,—he'd arrived with his ma,
On the tea gardens stumbled by chance,
And directly he saw all the girls he said "Haw!
I—aw—wish, don't you know, that I'd come here befaw"—
And he gave them a languishing glance;
To his feeble moustache he gave several twirls,
Declaring that Geishas were "Doocid fine girls!"

And he called for a dish of best Japanese tea,
And he ogled the pretty Jes-So,
While the warlike Li-Kwize stared in angry surprise
At the flirtation going on under his eyes,
And he wished that Lord Algy would go;
But, oh! dear me, no, he continued to stop
All the long afternoon in the pretty tea-shop.

On the morrow he came there again, and again
He appeared on the following day,
And it made Jes-So sad to hear language so bad
As Li-Kwize employed, as he "went on" like mad
In a grotesque, and Japanese way;
For he raved and he stormed as they do in Japan.
(You have seen how, no doubt, on a Japanese fan.)

He thrust, and he slashed at the air with his sword,
And he shouted aloud at each blow;
There is, really, no doubt he was greatly put out,
But he didn't do what you are thinking about:
He _didn't_ slay Lord Algy—no:
For Li-Kwize he was subtle, as subtle could be,
He'd a far better plan up his sleeve, don't you see.

He went to the house where Lord Algy's mamma,
A stern, and a haughty old dame,
Was staying, and, tho' it was all in dumb show,
He managed—somehow,—that the lady should know
Exactly her son's little game,
The equivalent Japanese noise for a kiss
He expressed,—its significance no one could miss.

In pantomime glibly he told the whole tale,
While the lady grew pale, and irate:
"Ha! _what's_ that you say? Takes tea there each day?
Geisha? Tea-shop indeed! Come, show me the way!
We must stop _this_ before it's too late."
And she pounced on her son, with a terrible frown,
At the pretty tea-shop at the end of the town.

Not a word did she say, but she took by the ear
Lord Algernon Perkyns de S.;
She turned him about, and she marched him straight out—
An undignified exit, altho', without doubt,
An effectual way to suppress
A thing which no mother _could_ view with delight,
And, for one, _I_ contend the old lady was right.

* * *

The pretty Jes-So, and the warlike Li-Kwize
"Made it up," I am happy to say,
And the almond-eyed miss, with a Japanese kiss,
Filled the warrior's heart with a Japanese bliss,
In quite the conventional way;
While the turtle-birds sang in the Gom-bobble trees
All their prettiest songs in their best Japanese.

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

(_An Allegory._)

I dote upon the softer sex.
The theme I write upon doth vex,
For female inconsistency
A sorry subject is for me
To tackle;
Yet of a wayward female hen
I write this time, with halting pen.
Compound of pride, and vanity,
All feathers she appear'd to be,
And cackle.

A flighty hen was she, no doubt—
A foolish fowl, a gad-about.
"Lay eggs!" quoth she. "Why should I?—why?
And set! I won't, upon that I
'M decided."
Then,—on the _Times_ instalment plan,—
A bicycle she bought, and 'gan
Domestic duties to neglect;
Her skirts were—what could one expect?—
Divided.

This conduct greatly scandalised
The farmyard; all looked on surprised,
All but the rooster staid and grim;
_He_ did not fret. 'Twas not for him
To rate her;
He let her go her wilful way,
And purchased for himself one day
A strange contraption—glass and tin—
An article that's called an in-
Cubator.

The nearest grocer's then he sought,
Some ten-a-shilling eggs he bought;
The incubator set to work
(There was no fear that _it_ would shirk
Its duty),
Then sat and waited patiently.
Not many days to wait, had he:
Within a week, to make him glad,
A family of chicks he had—
A beauty.

Surprised, his wife returned; but "No;
In future you your way may go,
And I'll go mine, misguided hen!"
Said he. She fell to pleading then,
But vainly.
"I'm better off without," he said,
"A wife with such an empty head.

* * *

He flourishes. His wife, grown stout,
Neglected, squa-a-ks and stalks about—
Ungainly.

MORAL.

It's a wise chicken in these days that knows
its own mother.

XXVII.
THAT OF A DUEL IN FRANCE.

Oh, _Fa-la-la!_ likewise _Hélas!_
A shocking thing has come to pass,
For Monsieur Henri Delapaire
Has fallen out,—a sad affair,—
With Monsieur Jacques Mallette.
"_La femme?_" Of course! They _both_ declare
They love _la belle_ Nannette.

_Ma foi!_ They'll surely come to blows,
For one has tweaked the other's nose,
Who quickly snaps, with fierce grimace,
His fingers in the other's face.
A duel _must_ result.
A Frenchman's honour 'twould disgrace
To bear with such insult.

"Pistols for two!"—in French,—they cry.
Nannette to come between doth fly:
"_Messieurs! Messieurs!_ pray, _pray_ be calm!
You fill your Nannette with alarm."
"_Parole d'honneur!_ No.
Revenge!" they cry. The big gendarme,
Nannette to call, doth go.

Quickly a crowd has gathered round,
Pistols are brought, and seconds found;
A grassy space beneath the trees,
Where gentlemen may fight at ease;
Then, each takes off his coat—
Glaring meanwhile as though he'd seize
The other by the throat.

The seconds shrug, gesticulate,
And pace the ground with step sedate;
Then anxious consultation hold
O'er pistols, for the rivals bold
Who now stand white and stern;
Their arms across their chests they fold,
And sideways each doth turn.

The seconds place them _vis-à-vis_,
And give them word to fire at "three";
Brave Monsieur Mallette shuts his eyes,
And points his pistol to the skies;
Brave Monsieur Delapaire
His hand to steady vainly tries,
It trembles in the air.

A deadly silence: "_Un—deux—trois!_"
Two shots are ringing through the _Bois_.
Two shots,—and then two awful calms;
As, senseless, in their seconds' arms
The duellists both lay.
(Their faces pale the crowd alarms,
And fills them with dismay.)

"Killed?" Goodness gracious—oh, dear _no_!
This couldn't be,—in France,—you know,
For pistols _there_ they never load.
But _caps_ were they which did explode:
_They've only swooned with fright._
See! one some signs of life has showed;
The crowd claps with delight.
They both revive. They both embrace.
Twice kiss each other on the face.

* * *

"Stay! Hold!" you cry. "You said, I thought,
_La belle_ Nannette the gendarme sought?"
She did,—_la belle_ Nannette,—
She sought, and found him—charming quite.
_She stays there with him yet._

She "never cared for Delapaire,"
She says with most _dégagé_ air;
And "as for Monsieur Mallette,—well,
He _may_ discover—who can tell?—
_Someone_ to marry yet."
Meanwhile _le gendarme pour la belle_,
The fickle, fair Nannette.

XXVIII.
THAT OF THE ASTUTE NOVELIST.

Quite an ordinary person
Wrote an ordinary book;
'Twas the first he'd ever written,
So a lot of pains he took.
From a two-a-penny paper
He some little _factlets_[2] culled,
With some "stories of celebrities"
By which the Public's gulled.

Then of course he had a hero,
And likewise a hero_ine_,
And a villain, and a villainess,
Whose nefarious design
Was most properly defeated
In the chapter last but one,—
Which described the happy ending—
There you were! The thing was done.

But, somehow, it didn't answer.
"Nothing strange," you'll say, "in that";
And, indeed, perhaps there wasn't
_Very_ much to wonder at,
For the book was really never
Calculated fame to win,
And the author's coat grew shabby
And his body very thin.

And he pondered, and he pondered
O'er his misery and ills,
Till, one day, he met a party
Who was posting up some bills.
"What's the matter?" asked this person,
"You are looking mighty glum.
Books not selling? Advertise 'em.
_That's_ the dodge to make things hum."

"Look at 'Whatsit's Soap,' and so on!
Look at 'Thingumbobby's Pills!'
It's the advertising does it,
And the owner's pocket fills.
Puff 'em up; the Public likes it;
And—(this from behind his hand)—
It doesn't matter if it's
Not _quite_ true, _you_ understand."

So the author wrote another
Book, and brought in Tsars, and Kings,
And Popes, and noble ladies—
Queens, and Duchesses, and things
And "the problem" of the moment;
And some politics, and cram,
With tit-bits of foreign language
Mixed with literary jam.

And in type he had it stated
That "the world was all agog"
For this "epoch-making" novel,
And—their memory to jog—
The public had it daily
In all kinds of sorts of ways
Thrust upon them, till it set
Their curiosity ablaze.

And from Brixton unto Ponder's End
'Twas daily talked about
This wonderful new novel
Long, long, long before 'twas out;
I forget how many hundred
Thousand copies have been sold;
But it's brought the lucky author
Notoriety, and gold.

This judicious advertising
Has indeed brought him success;
He's the "lion" of the moment
In Society (big S).
It is even said that Royalty——
But there! I mustn't say,
For _he'll tell you all about it_
In another book some day.

Footnote 2:

A _factlet_ is _nearly_ a fact.

XXIX.
THAT OF THE ABSENT-MINDED LADY.

The lady hailed a passing 'bus,
And sat down with a jerk;
Upon her heated face she wore
A most complacent smirk;
Three parcels held she in her lap,
Safe-guarded from the least mishap.

The 'bus it rattled, bumped, and shook—
She didn't seem to mind—
And every now and then she _smiled_,
As something crossed her mind:
She evidently longed to tell
The joke, that we might smile as well.

"These men!" she said, at last to one
Who sat beside her. "It's absurd.
To hear them rave. They seem to think
That nobody—upon my word—
But men can do things in what they
Are pleased to call the proper way.

"My husband now, he's like the rest,
And said, when I came out
To do some shopping, I'd forget
_Something_, he had no doubt,
Or else buy more than I desired,
Or something which was not required.

"Now, _three_ things I set out to buy
At Mr. Whiteley's store;
Three parcels here, I'm taking home,
_Three_ parcels, and no more.
My husband he must own ere long
Himself entirely in the wrong."

She smiled,—a most triumphant smile.
"Exactly like the men!"
She said, and I—she looked at me—
Felt much embarrassed then.
Her scorn for men was undisguised;
The other ladies sympathised.

But, presently, I noticed that
Upon the lady's face
No smile was seen—a puzzled frown
Had come there in its place;
She squirmed, and fidgeted about,
And turned her pockets inside out.

She counted over—several times—
Her parcels—"One—two—three;"
Clutched at her purse, her parasol;
Then muttered, "H'm! Dear me!
There's nothing that I haven't got.
What _can_ I have forgotten? What?"

She tapped her foot impatiently;
Stared out into the street;
She got up several times and searched
Quite vaguely o'er the seat;
Then gave a sigh and settled down,
Still wearing that bewildered frown.

Then, evidently lost in thought,
She sat as in a dream,
Till—o'er her face a pallor spread,—
She sprang up, with a scream:
"Oh, stop! Pray stop, conductor! Stop!
_I've left the baby in the shop!_"

XXX.
THAT OF THE GERMAN BAKER AND THE COOK.

Dese vimens! Ach! dese vimens!
To me id is quide sad
Dat dey can be so bootiful,
Und yet can be so bad.
Dey vonce a fool haf made me
As never vas before;
Bud now I _know_ dose vimens,
Und dey don't do dat no more.

Look! I am here a baker,
Und bread und biscuits bake,
Der dough-nuts, und der cooken,
Und all such tings I make;
Von voman to my shop come,
So bootiful und big,
Her eyes vas plue und shining,
Her hair joost like a vig.

She buy of me some dough-nuts,
She come again next day,
Und in my dough-nuts buying
She stole mine heart avay;
For, ach! she vas so lofely
As never yet I found—
I tink dot even _both_ my arms
Her vaist could not go round.

Von day to me she say: "I vish
I could dose dough-nuts make;
My family is goned avay;
Come now, und ve shall make
Some dough-nuts in my kitchen,
If you vill show me how."
I go. Because I tink, perhaps,
I get her for mine vrow.

Der kitchen id vas big und clean,
Der supper vas set out.
Mit places at der table
For two, mit pie, und stout.
I show her how dough-nuts to make,
Und den ve sit to sup;
Ven comes a vistle at der gate;
Der voman she jumps up.
"Quick! quick!" she say, "here somevon comes,
Und you must herein hide."

She pushes me der pantry in,
Mit nothing else beside.
I peep der keyhole through und see
A big policeman stand;
Der voman seems him pleased to see,
Und shakes him by der hand.

Den dey two at der supper sit
(Dot supper made for me),
Und I am in der pantry shut,
mad as mad can be;
I sit der flour barrel upon,
Der barrel it go through,
Und in der flour I tumble. Ach!
It make me schneize "Tish-oo!"

Der policeman say "Hark! vat is dat?"
Und open burst der door;
Dey see me den,—all vite mit flour
Und tumbled on der floor.
Der voman scream "A burglar man!"
Und tremble, und look pale;
Der policeman den he take me up,
And march me off to gaol.

Der magistrate some money for
A fine shall make me pay;
Der policeman und der voman
Dey get married yesterday:
So never now I trust no more
_All_ vimens vat I see;
Dey make again some other man
A fool, but _never_ me.

XXXI.
THAT OF THE CONVERTED CANNIBALS.

Upon an island, all alone,
They lived, in the Pacific;
Somewhere within the Torrid Zone,
Where heat is quite terrific.
'Twould shock you were I to declare
The many things they did not wear,
Altho' no doubt
One's best without
Such things in heat terrific.

Though cannibals by birth were they,
Yet, since they'd first existed,
Their simple menu day by day
Of such-like things consisted:
Omelets of turtle's eggs, and yams,
And stews from freshly-gathered clams,
Such things as these
Were,—if you please,—
Of what their fare consisted.

But after dinner they'd converse,
Nor did their topic vary;
Wild tales of gore they would rehearse,
And talk of _missionary_.
They'd gaze upon each other's joints,
And indicate the tender points.
Said one: "For us
'Tis dangerous
To _think_ of _missionary_."

Well, on a day, upon the shore,
As flotsam, or as jetsum,
Some wooden cases,—ten, or more,—
Were cast up. "Let us get some,
And see, my friend, what they contain;
The chance may not occur again,"
Said good Who-zoo.
Said Tum-tum, "Do;
We'll both wade out and get some."

The cases held,—what do you think?—
"PRIME MISSIONARY—TINNED."
Nay! gentle reader, do not shrink
The man who made it sinned:
He thus had labelled bloater-paste
To captivate the native taste.
He hoped, of course,
This fraud to force
On them. In this he sinned.

Our simple friends knew naught of sin,
They thought that this confection
_Was_ missionary in a tin
According to direction.
For very joy they shed salt tears.
"'Tis what we've waited for, for years,"
Said they. "Hooray!
We'll feast to-day
According to direction."

"'Tis very tough," said one, for he
The tin and all had eaten.
"Too salt," the other said, "for me;
The flavour might be beaten."
It was enough. Soon each one swore
He'd missionary eat no more:
Their tastes were cured,
They felt assured
This flavour might be beaten.

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."

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.