Chapter IX: Part II (3)

The BOSHIE MEN, or PIGMY RACE, through their interpreter, stated, they were happy to find that, though the Dwarfs had come over to England little by little, they now formed so large a body.

DON FRANCISCO HIDALGO said, "Dat as el smallest man in el vorld, he objec to el proceed; for he never meet vith el couragement el dam Dom Dum speak of."

The little Men here got to very high words, and the meeting broke up in confusion.

NAPOLEON'S ADIEU D'EGYPTIAN HALL.
]

PHLARUPPE!
AN OSSIANIC POEM.

DUAN THE FIRST.

_Argument._

_This poem is addressed to the Maid of "the_ RAINBOW" (_in Fleet
Street_), _where_ OSSIAN _is enjoying his Whisky and Cigar. The_
PHLARUPPE _here spoken of is the same as the AQUÆVADIUS mentioned
so frequently in Police History, and who in the year '40 headed an
expedition against the Knockers of_ COCKAIGNE, _and was repulsed
by "the force" under the command of_ ROWAN, _the chief of Scotland
(Yard), though not until_ PHLARUPPE _had routed several of his
"Divisions." Tradition assigns the date of this event to the year
'42, but on searching the pages of the historian_ HODDER, _we find
no mention made of the circumstance in his valuable work
entitled_, "SKETCHES OF LIFE AND CHARACTER TAKEN AT BOW STREET."

Bring, daughter of the Rainbow! bring me the pen of steel! The mountain-dew sparkles in Ossian's brain, and it is brilliant with song. As is the black reviver to the garment whose seams are white with age, so is the cream of the valley to the seedy soul of the bard. It brings back the freshness of youth.

A tale of high life! The deeds of the superior classes!

The draught of the waters of Kinahan wakens the memory of the past. The odour of thy weeds, mild Lopez! is pleasant in Ossian's nose. Like the brow of Ben-Primrose, his head is veiled in clouds. Listen, thou daughter of the Rainbow! to the deeds of the superior classes.

A tale of high life!

Fair is thy Garden, O Covent! Green are its paths with the leaves of the cabbage. There the cauliflower of Fulham rests its white head, and the pine of Jamaica perfumes the breeze. The daughters of Erin are there laden with Pippins of gold. Near are the halls of Evans. Music is heard in them by night. The morning dawns in song. The voice of Llewellyn of Wales gladdens the feast! and Sloman, the son of Israel, pours forth his numbers, apt as the bard of Moses. Glad are the halls of Evans! It is the abode of Joy!

Wilt thou not listen, bright maid of the Rainbow! to the voice of Ossian? My soul is bursting with song. The collars of my Corazza droop like the ears of the Greyhound, and my eye in a fine frenzy rolls. Thus the mighty Bunn appears when he dreams that he dwells in marble halls. Dost thou not behold, bright maid! the head of a lion in Ossian's hand? A ring of iron depends from its mouth, and its face wears a look of rage. That head the noble Phlaruppe, Lord of Belgravia, tore away. Phlaruppe tore it away by the strength of his arm. Listen, then, daughter of the Rainbow! to the tale of high life! The deeds of the superior classes!

What sound is that kisses the ear? Across thy Garden, sweet Covent! it comes dancing along the breeze. Can it be the song of the lark climbing the sky? But the lark wakes not the night with his notes; and bright burns the gas in the lamp of the Tavistock. 'Tis the voice of Von Joel, the toothless, gladdening the halls of Evans. Of Evans, the son of Thespis.

The Thespian son sits in his hall of state. The feast is spread around. The strong waters of Hodges and Betts sparkle on the board. A thousand Havannahs perfume the air. A thousand glittering tankards foam with the nectar of Barclay. There is the ripe fruit of Erin, and the rabbit of Wales is there.

Who comes from the Saloons of the West, with his warriors around him? He smokes the Dodeen of peace. His face glows with the juice of the Gooseberry. His cheeks are as red as the garments of the bearers of letters on the festival of May? Who is it but the noble Phlaruppe, the Lord of Belgravia? In his train is Sutton the Sambo; and Burke, the hard of hearing, attends him. Mighty in battle are they.

The Lord of Belgravia graces the board: the Bards hail his presence with a song. He quaffs the brown stout of Dublin. The night reels away in revelry. The morning peeps in at the casement; and Phlaruppe, the Lord of Belgravia, is glorious with Guinness's.

A tale of high life! The deeds of the superior classes!

DUAN THE SECOND.

Grey grows the air with the Day's young light. With the carmine of Morning the cheek of Heaven is rouged. The Camphine lamp of the Moon has gone out; and turned off is the Gas of the Stars. Yawning the tired Policeman crawls on his rounds.

Hushed are the halls of Evans.

Where art thou, Belgravia's Lord? Thou pride of the West, where art thou? Lo! he comes; but his steps are unsteady with Beer. On the sinewy arms of the dark-skinned Sutton, and Burke, surnamed the Deaf, he leans. From them he bursts of a sudden, like the cork from the Waters of Soda. The head of a lion on the gates of Gliddon, the chief of the Divan, frowns on the valiant Phlaruppe. Dauntless as the brute-taming Van Amburgh, he grapples with the iron beast. He sounds the "fake away" of Belgravia. One potent wrench of his arm and the head of the forest king hangs drooping from Phlaruppe's hand. Knockerless are the gates of Gliddon! Of its lion the divan is bereft!

The lynx-eyed C 16 beheld the wrong. His dander arose. He drew his staff in vengeance. He seized the noble Phlaruppe. Sutton, the heavy-handed son of Africa, raised his arm. His white teeth grinned defiance on the blue son of Peel. Into the murky waters of the kennel he hurled the pride of the yard of Scotland. His blood crimsoned the flags. Groaning for help, he sprang the rattle of war.

Like rockets at Vauxhall the azure force of Rowan rushed up. Their hands grasped the staff of power. Phlaruppe heard the tramp of their Wellingtons. He sounded the Lullalietee of battle. He gathered his warriors around him. Firm as the cement of Pouloo they stood. As a torrent from a shower-bath poured the stiff-necked sons of Peel upon the foe.

As the cats of Kilkenny they fight. Like the shop of the maker of trunks rings the street with the blows. Stained is the earth with the claret of life.

Battle of the Garden of Covent, why should Ossian, like Robins, the chief of Garraway's, pen the catalogue of thy wounds? Thou art with the son of Kean, a calamity of the past.

The force of the Yard of Scotland overcame!

On the stretcher of Ignominy, Phlaruppe, the Lord of Belgravia, was laid!

DUAN THE THIRD.

In the cell of the Station, Phlaruppe hiccups out the Morn. The benches of wood pillow his burning head. He sighs for a draught of the sparkling Waters of Carrara, or a goblet of the bubbling Powders of Seidilitz. But the ice of the Lake of Wenham is not more cold than the hearts of his victors. In the cell of the Station, Phlaruppe hiccups out the Morn.

On the throne of Justice the even-handed Twyford sits. Before him Phlaruppe, Belgravia's hope, is dragged. He quails, for the voice of the Judge is severe as Hicks the lusty-lunged Son of the Surrey. And lo! to the terrors of Brixton's wheel an alms-seeking child of want he condemns. What then shall be the doom of Phlaruppe?

But Phlaruppe is the Lord of Belgravia. In his presence the heart of Twyford, the even-handed, grows soft as the Asphalte of Claridge before the Sun in the days of the Dogs. With the milk of human kindness the veins of his bosom are filled. Pity touches his heart-strings; and his tone with compassion is soft as the Piccolo of Jullien, the Emperor of all the Polkas.

But why, Maid of the Rainbow, should Ossian, like a penny-a-liner, recite the fine that Phlaruppe paid to his Queen; or tell how the generous Twyford, for a crown, forgave him who tore the Lion's head from Gliddon's halls?

A tale of high life! The deeds of the superior classes!

The Carrara Water is found very efficacious in cases of Heart-burn.
]

Oh! that dreadful British Brandy!
]

It is strongly recommended in cases of foul tongue.
]

AN ANACREONTIC:
IN PRAISE OF CARRARA WATER.

Come, let us quaff the Wine of Moet!
Come, let us sing like Moses' Poet!
To thee and to thy sparkling daughter,
Carrara's copper-cooling Water!
Maugham! come let us sing of thee,
St. Swithin of Sobriety!
Sweet, after drinking too much wine,
Kind Cockle! are those pills of thine:
Or when the bowl has drown'd the wits,
Sweet are thy Powders—Seidilitz!
Or seedy with the dew of Mountains,
The water's sweet from Soda's fountains.
Yes! sweet are these—but sweeter far are
Thy sparkling Waters—O Carrara!
And Maugham! thy fame doth far outstep
The fame of Cockle—fame of Schweppe.

So when I burn with too much 'toddy,'
Carrara! thou shalt cool my body;
Yes! then I'll seek that Water's aid,
That's from Carrara marble made:
And as I drain it from the chalice,
I'll dream I drink some melted palace;
Or quaff some Venus in solution,
Of fam'd Canova's execution;
Or fancy, as the draught decreases,
I'm swallowing bottled chimney-pieces.

Carrara! thy delicious fluid
To me's the loveliest liquor brewéd;
My throbbing brain grows calm and placid.
Whene'er I quaff thee—sweet Antacid!
Thine is the gift of being able
To cure "the excesses of the table,"
And all the ills that thence attack us,
Thou brightest, healthiest child of Bacchus
For when I've drunk too much Glenlivat,
And my head is splitting with it,
Carrara! thou can'st ease my pain,
And fit my soul to drink again.

"MY WIFE IS A WOMAN OF MIND."
]

THE WOMAN OF MIND.

My wife is a woman of mind,
And Deville, who examined her bumps,
Vow'd that never were found in a woman
Such large intellectual lumps.
"Ideality" big as an egg,
With "Causality"—great—was combined;
He charg'd me ten shillings, and said,
"Sir, your wife is a woman of mind."

She's too clever to care how she looks,
And will horrid blue spectacles wear,
Not because she supposes they give her
A fine intellectual air;
No! she pays no regard to appearance,
And combs all her front hair behind,
Not because she is proud of her forehead,
But because she's a woman of mind.

She makes me a bushel of verses,
But never a pudding or tart,
If I hint I should like one, she vows
I'm an animal merely at heart;
Though I've notic'd she spurns not the pastry,
Whene'er at a friend's we have din'd,
And has always had two plates of pudding,
Such plates! for a woman of mind.

Not a stitch does she do but a distich,
Mends her pen too instead of my clothes;
I haven't a shirt with a button,
Nor a stocking that's sound at the toes;
If I ask her to darn me a pair,
She replies she has work more refined:
Besides, to be seen darning stockings!
_Is_ it fit for a woman of mind?

The children are squalling all day,
For they're left to the care of a maid;
My wife can't attend to "the units,"
"The millions" are wanting her aid.
And it's vulgar to care for one's offspring—
The mere brute has a love of its kind—
But _she_ loves the whole human fam'ly,
For _she_ is a woman of mind.

Every thing is an inch thick in dust,
And the servants do just as they please;
The ceilings are cover'd with cobwebs,
The beds are all swarming with fleas;
The windows have never been clean'd,
And as black as your hat is each blind;
But my wife's nobler things to attend to,
For she is a woman of mind.

The Nurse steals the tea and the sugar,
The Cook sells the candles as grease,
And gives all the cold meat away
To her lover, who's in the Police.
When I hint that the housekeeping's heavy,
And hard is the money to find,
"Money's vile filthy dross!" she declares,
And unworthy a woman of mind.

Whene'er she goes out to a dance,
She refuses to join in the measure,
For dancing she can't but regard
As an unintellectual pleasure:
So she gives herself up to enjoyments
Of a more philosophical kind,
And picks all the people to pieces,
Like a regular woman of mind.

She speaks of her favourite authors
In terms far from pleasant to hear;
"Charles Dickens," she vows, "is a darling,"
"And Bulwer," she says, "is a dear;"
"Douglas Jerrold," with her "is an angel,"
And I'm an "illiterate hind,"
Upon whom her fine intellect's wasted;
I'm not fit for a woman of mind.

She goes not to Church on a Sunday,
Church is all very well in its way,
But she is too highly inform'd
Not to know all the parson can say;
It does well enough for the servants,
And was for poor people design'd;
But bless you! it's no good to her,
For _she_ is a woman of mind.

Old Father St. Swithin, the Gentleman who presides over the Cat and
Dog Days.

A Grand Gala at Vauxhall, under the Patronage of St. Swithin
]

THE CLOUD.

(_Another Version of_ SHELLEY'S _partial view of the subject_.)

I bring cats and dogs, and November fogs,
For the folks of Cockney land;
And I brew the flood of slush and mud
In Fleet Street and the Strand.
From my watery bed spring colds in the head,
And highly inflam'd sore-throats;
And I'm the Mama[7] of the bad Catarrh,
And the Mother of Waterproof Coats.
I gave birth to Goloshes and Macintoshes,
The clog, the cork sole, and the patten;
And I act as wet Nus to each Omnibus,
For 'tis on my moisture they fatten.

I come down pretty thick at every Pic Nic,
And throw my cold water upon it;
And delight at each Fête that is called a Champêtre,
To spoil every new silk bonnet;
I'm more kind to each Jarvey than was Wittle Harvey,
When he was Commiss'oner of Stamps;
I'm the foe of Vauxhall's Grand Fancy Dress Balls,
Where I love to extinguish the Lamps;
And whenever a fellow leaves at home his Umbrella,
Oh Lord! how I chuckle and grin!
For then you may warrant I'll come down in a torrent,
And soak the poor wretch to the skin.

Footnote 7:

Be pleased to give this word the proper Cockney pronunciation—MamAR!
None others are genuine.

JUPITER AND THE MOTHER.
AN IDYLL.

At the altar of Jupiter knelt a poor woman. She was about to become a Mother, and thus she invoked the God:—

"Oh Jupiter! King of the Heavens! and Ruler of the Earth! grant that the dear burthen which I now bear may be a Stranger to the cares of Life! Vouchsafe unto it such gifts that it may be the most admired of all thy Children,—the richest—the happiest of Men. Oh Jupiter! King of the Heavens! and Ruler of the Earth! hear me!"

She spoke, and Mercury, the winged messenger of Jove, stood before her.

"Mortal!" said he, "return with Joy to thy hearth! He who wieldeth the sceptre of Fate hath heard thy petition; and the Child shall be as thou hast asked."

In time the Mother bore a Son. His form rivalled that of the boy-god Cupid. And she rejoiced to think he was the blest of Jupiter.

A year passed on, and the proud Mother saw the Infant bud blossom into the Child.

But the second year came and went, and the Boy increased not in Stature.

The third year stole away, and still the little thing grew not.

The fourth—the fifth—the sixth rolled by, and yet the Child remained in figure as at the end of the first.

Albeit the Mother murmured not, for she remembered the promise of him who wieldeth the sceptre of Fate, and hoped in patience.

But when twelve summers had gone, and the anxious Matron beheld her Boy still a Babe in form though a Youth in years, Hope and Patience left her; and thus she complained:—

"Oh Jupiter! Jupiter! have the promises of the Gods become as those of Men? Didst thou not in thy bounty vouchsafe unto me a Boy that should be the most admired of all thy Children? And what hast thou sent me? A little thing to whom even the shape of Manhood is denied! and at whose stunted figure the world gapes with pitying wonder. Oh Jupiter! Jupiter! for what mysterious good hast thou thus visited me?"

The cloud-compelling Jove heard the Mother's murmurs and thus from on high rebuked her:—

BORN A GENIUS AND BORN A DWARF.

"Why, Child of Clay! dost thou question the goodness of the Gods? Thy petition was heard, and has been granted. What more wouldst thou have had? Didst thou not beseech me that thy Boy should be the richest and happiest of Men?"

"I did, Great Jove!" replied the trembling Mother; "but thou, in thy strange bounty, hast given to me a Child with limbs too small and weak to earn even the scantiest subsistence; and whose wretched deformity must make his life a burthen to him and me."

"And what, blind Mortal! wouldst thou that I had done?" exclaimed the God.

"Oh that thou hadst blest him with a form of Power, and a mind of Genius!" cried the heavy-hearted parent; "then would Wealth and Joy have gladdened his days."

"Fool that thou art!" said the Sovereign of the Skies; "listen and learn how I have blest, and thou wouldst have curst, thy Child! Had I conferred on him the Genius thou sighest after he would have felt but Want and Neglect in the world. Had I quickened him with a sense of the Beautiful, his Life would have been a Misery—his Death a Crime. For know that Mind alone can sympathize with Mind; and mindless Man enriches those who minister rather to the luxury of his Senses than to the refinement of his Intellect."

"Oh, all-wise Jove!" exclaimed the abashed Mother.

"See how thou wouldst have beggared thy Boy with Genius," continued the Thunderer. "And now listen how I have enriched him with Deformity. He shall go forth a wonder to the staring and senseless world. Monarchs shall smile upon him, and rejoice to gird his neck with precious Jewels. He shall be the beloved of Matrons, and the fondling of Damsels. Crowds shall flock to behold him, heaping his little lap with countless riches and costly gifts. His car shall be drawn through the public ways in triumph; and he—the stunted dwarf—shall play the Giant Emperor among men. Thank thou, then, the Gods, oh Woman! whose bounty has given thee a Dwarf, and not a Genius for thy Child."

Thus spake the mighty Jove, and the Mother in gratitude cried out:—

"Oh, Jupiter! King of the Heavens, and Ruler of the Earth! I thank thee! for now I see thou hast, indeed, vouchsafed that my Boy shall be the most admired of all thy Children—the richest—the happiest of Men."

Perrot teaching the Gods and Goddesses how to dance.
]

Minerva, as she did appear at the Italian Opera.
]

Minerva, as she ought to have appeared at the Italian Opera.
]

Neptune, as he probably will appear at the Italian Opera.
]

A MONO-RHYME.

Oh, Monsieur Perrot! oh, Monsieur Perrot!
Whatever on earth could have made you do so?
Put the Judgment of Paris all into dumb-show!
Bring the Gods and the Goddesses down from _en haut_!
Paris—Mercury—Venus—Minerva—Juno—
To trip "on the light fantastic toe!"
For who ever heard of a Fandango—
A Gavotte—a Cotillion—a Bolero—
Balancez—avancez—chaine des dames—dos-à-dos,
Or indeed any _pas_ (excepting a "_faux_")
Perform'd by a Goddess, I'd like to know?
Whate'er in the name, too, of Lemprière and Co.,
Could have made it come into your head to bestow
On the Goddess of Wisdom, so _comme il faut_,
And who Keightley informs us was "chaste as snow,"
A petticoat scarcely, Sir, reaching below
The knees of the lady—and looking as though
'Twas a kilt of book-muslin or calico!
Whereas every classical cameo
Assures us she usen't her legs to show—
Perhaps they were bandy and form'd like a bow—
Or her ankles were gummy—but whether or no
Sure the Goddess half-naked objected to go.
Now it wouldn't have been such a dreadful blow,
And to Mamselle Minerva much more _à propos_,
Had you comb'd back the hair of the Virago—
Dress'd it _à la Chinoise_ 'stead of _en Bandeau_—
While a pair of "blue specs" would have served to throw
Round the Goddess of Wisdom a learned halo!
But short Petticoats surely are rather _de trop_
For the Sapient Minerva and Stately Juno!!
Then Oh, Mister Lumley! Oh, Monsieur Perrot!
And Oh, Lucille Grahn! and Oh, Cerito!
Whatever on earth could have made you do so?

The Gods and Goddesses behind the Scenes at the Italian Opera.
]

SHAM IBRAHIM,

or the Pacha at Vauxhall.
]

A LAY OF MODERN ENGLAND
OR, IBRAHIM PACHA AT VAUXHALL.

Great Ibrahim of Egypt has promised the Lessee The Masquerade at Vauxhall he'll go in State to see; To Allah he has vowed it—to Allah and the Clown, That in his royal Glass-Coach he will in State go down.

It's posted in all Quarters—it's stuck up in all Parts, It's carried about by Boardmen and advertising Carts; It is in every paper—it is on every wall, That Ibrahim of Egypt is going to Vauxhall.

To-night the Clerks of London shall "Merry Monarchs" be; To-night each Linendraper shall get his Captaincy; The Tailors Metropolitan to-night shall strut as Greeks, And Jews for Don Giovannis shall rouge their sallow cheeks.

But there are six young Doctors who dearly love a Laugh, One is disguised as Ibrahim, the others as his staff; They've hired a seedy Glass-Coach—they've Beards and Caps and All, And as Ibrahim of Egypt they're going to Vauxhall.

And now they leave the Borough with many a loud Huzzā; Drive on! drive on! to Vauxhall—On to the Bal Masqué! On! shout the six young Doctors, and, as the crowd Hurrah, They laugh to find they're taken for Ibrahim Pacha.

In swarms the Masqueraders are whirling to the Doors, Of Sailors there are Hundreds—of Soldiers there are Scores, And lots of German Students who nought of German know, And not a few Postillions who're _not_ from Lonjumeau.

And many illegal Lawyers with borrow'd Wigs and Gowns, And lively Undertakers—and melancholy Clowns, And Debardeurs and Tomboys—and many a Bow-bell Swain, And dressed as "Heeland Lassies," the Lasses of Cockaigne.

From Eastward and from Westward the Masks are pouring there, The Nobbish and the Snobbish from Mile End and May Fair; They pour from many a Mess-room—and many a Second Floor, They pour from Swan and Edgar's—from Lincoln's Inn they pour.

But now Inspector Higgins rides up the way to clear; "Stand back! stand back! you fellows, great Ibrahim is near!" And then, far in the distance, the welkin's heard to ring, With "Long live Ibrahim Pacha! Long life to Egypt's King!"

And Nearer still and Nearer the seedy Glass-Coach steals, And Louder grows and Louder the rumbling of its Wheels, And Plainly and more Plainly is heard the People's din, But Nothing still—no Nothing does the Pacha do but Grin.

For Clearly, very Clearly, the Ibrahim they cheer'd, Was only a Sham Ibrahim with only a Sham Beard, And Truly, very Truly, the Pacha's present Suite Came not from Mighty Egypt, but from Great Tooley Street.

Now the Lessee of the Gardens receives them at the Gates, And thinks the six young Doctors six Eastern Potentates, And trusts His Royal Highness some Wine will deign to quaff, Whereat His Royal Highness winks at His Royal Staff.

But the Lessee's looks are angry, and the Lessee's Brows depressed, A Jest he loves most dearly, but this is past a Jest; For he hears another Party with Beards and Caps and All, As Ibrahim of Egypt has come unto Vauxhall.

Then to the Great Sham Ibrahim he talks extremely Large, Assures his Sham Royal Highness he'll give the Rogues in charge, Whereon the Sham Interpreter swears t'other's come to Fleece, And calls aloud for "Vengeance!" and louder for "Police!"

Off to Inspector Higgins the Lessee Flies forthwith; "There'll be a row," says Ibrahim, "as sure as my name's Smith; Though if it comes to Fighting, boys, I am a match for Three, And I will fight like Bricks to-night if You will stand by Me."

Then outspake young O'Driscoll, one of the Staff was He, "I'll fight for hours for Thee, by the pow'rs! and I will stand by Thee!" And outspake "Charley" Smivens, and outspake t'other Three, "We'll fight like mad for Thee, my Lad! and We'll all stand by Thee!"

Now down the Lessee rushes with Higgins to the Gates, And vows he'll have the Pacha up before the Magistrates; He calls His Royal Highness an Impostor and a cheat, And tells Inspector Higgins to collar Him and Suite.

Cries Higgins, when he sees him—"This beats cock-fighting _holler_, That there's the King of Egypt you're telling me to collar; Yes, I'd take my affidavey, although you looks and starts, That there's the King of Egypt what lodges at Mivart's!"

"_That_ Ibr'im!" cries the Lessee, "then t'other's all a Flam, But I'll bow in the Real One if you'll kick out the Sham;" "I will! I will!" shouts Higgins, then with a small Array Of gallant young Policemen he hurries to the Fray.

Young Smivens knock'd down Higgins into the gutter—smack! O'Driscoll sent C 30 Whap! right upon his Back; At two more of "the Body" Smith gave a potent Thrust, And then C 6 and 7 lay groaning in the Dust.

But they've sent for more Policemen to come and keep the Peace, And yonder from the Station march twenty more Police; "Cut off! Cut off, O'Driscoll!" loud cried the Doctors all, "Cut, Smith! Cut, Charley Smivens! Cut, over the Garden Wall."

Off ran both Smith and Smivens, and off O'Driscoll ran, The other Three ran off too, pursued by man a Man, And o'er the Wall they scrambled, and scrambled o'er the Ground, Nor stopt till in the Borough they were All Safe and Sound.

And now, when of an Evening they want a hearty Laugh, When they sit smoking "Dodeens," and drinking Half and Half, And when they're getting Jolly they Love this Chant to squall, Telling how as Ibrahim Pacha they went into Vauxhall.

"I DREAMT I SLEPT AT MADAME TUSSAUD'S."
]

The Magnificent Group of the Royal Family, as it will appear at Madame
Tussaud's in a few years' time.
]

Madame Tussaud beside herself
]

The Brigand of Windmill Street on the look-out down the Haymarket.
]

George IV. at Madame Tussaud's without his grand Coronation Robes.
]

I DREAMT THAT I SLEPT AT MADAME TUSSAUD'S.

I.

I dreamt that I sle-ept at Madame Tussaud's,
With Cut-throats and Kings by my si-i-de;
And that all the Wax-figures in tho-ose abodes
At Midnight became vivifi-i-ied.
I dreamt William the Four-urth sat dow-own to smoke
With Collins, who aimed at his eye,
And I a-also dre-eamt King Hal—what a joke!—
Danc'd the Polka with Mi-istress Fry
Danc'd the Polka—the Polka with Mi-istress Fry,
Danc'd the Polka—the Polka with Mi-istress Fry.

II.

I dreamt that Napo-le-on Bo-onaparte
Was waltzing with Madame T-e-ee;
That O'Connell, to study the regicide art,
Had a gossip with Fieschi-e-ee;
And Penn making eyes with Queen Be-ess I saw,
And Pitt taking gro-og with Fox.
And I a-also dreamt the Sun melted—oh la!
The nose of Lord Brougham and Vaux—
The nose of—the nose of Lord Brougham and Vaux,
The nose of—the nose of Lord Brougham and Vaux.

Napoleon, at Madame Tussaud's, melting before the Sun of England.
]

SIR THOMAS BROWN ON WELSH RABBITS.
BEING A CONTINUATION OF HIS "INQUIRIES INTO VULGAR AND COMMON
ERRORS."

The common opinion of the Welsh Rabbit conceits that it is a species of _Cuniculus_ indigenous to Wales; of which assertion, if Prescription of time and Numerosity of assertors were a sufficient Demonstration, we might sit down herein as an orthodoxical Truth, nor should there need ulterior Disquisition. _Pliny_ discourseth of it under the Head of _De Animalibus Walliœ_. _Seneca_ describeth it as an exosseous Animal, or one of the invertebrated or boneless kind. _Claudian_ saith that it delighteth to burrow underground in Coal Holes and Cyder Cellars. _Scaliger_ affirmeth it to be like to the Hyena, incapable of Domitation or taming, for the cause that he never heard of one being domesticated in a Hutch. _Sarenus Sammonicus_ determineth it to be like unto the Salamander, moist in the third degree, and to have a mucous Humidity above and under the Epidermis, or outer skin, by virtue whereof it endureth the Fire for a time. Nor are such conceits held by Humane authors only, for the holy Fathers of the Church have likewise similarly opinioned. _St. Augustine_ declareth it to be an unclean Animal; insomuch that like to the Polecat it is Graveolent, emitting a strong Murine, or Micy Effluvium. _The Venerable Bede_ averreth that it is Noctiparent, as the Bat or Owl, and seldom quitteth its Warrenne until Midnight, for food; for the reason that being Cœcigenous, or possessing no organs of Vision, it loveth Tenebrosity.

All which notwithstanding, upon strict inquiry, we find the Matter controvertible. _Diodorus_, in his Eleventh Book, affirmeth the Welsh Rabbit to be a creature of Figment, like unto the Sphinx and Snap-Dragon. _Mathiolus_, in his Comment on _Dioscorides_, treateth it not as an Animal, but as a Lark. _Sextius_, a Physitian, saith that having well digested the matter, he was compulsed to reject it; whilest _Salmuth_, the Commentator of _Pancirollus_, averreth that one _Podocaterus_, a Cyprian, kept one for Months in a Cage, without ever having attained the sight of the remotest Manifestation of Vitality.

Now, besides Authority against it, Experience doth in no way confirm the existence of the Welsh Rabbit as an Animant Entity. But, contrariwise, the principles of Sense and Reason conspire to asseverate it to be, like unto the Myths of Paganism, an Inanimant Body, vivificated by the Ignoration and Superstitiosity of men. For had they but inquired into the Etymon, or true meaning of the name of the Entity in question, they would have experienced that it was originally merely the Synonyme for a British Dainty, or Cymric Scitamentum; insomuch as it was primitively appellated, "The Welsh Tid, or Rare-Bit;" which, by elision, becoming Metamorphosed into Ra'bit, was, from its Homophony, vulgarly supposed to have respect to the _Cuniculus_ rather than to the _Scitamentum_ of Wales.

Again, the Doctrine of the Existence of the Welsh Rabbit as a Vivous Entity, doth in nowise accord with the three definitive Confirmators and Tests of things dubious: to wit, Experiment, Analysis, and Synthesis. And first by Experiment. For if we send to Wales for one of the Rabbits, vernacular to the Principality, we shall discriminate on the attainment of it, no Difformity in its Organism from that of the Cuniculi vulgar to other Countries. And if we then proceed to discoriate and exossate the Animal thus attained, or to deprive it of both its Skin and Bones, and after to macerate the residuary Muscular Fibre into a papparious Pulp, we shall experience, upon diffusing the same on an _Offula tosta_, or a thin slice of toast, that so far from the concoction partaking in the least of the delectable Sapor of the Welsh _Scitamentum_, it will in no way titillate the lingual Papillæ, but, contrariwise, offer inordinate Offence to the Gust.

And, secondly, by Analysis, If, in the stead of sending to Wales, we betake ourselves to any Hostelrie or place of Cenatory Resort, vicine to Covent Garden (whereanent they be celebrious for the concoction of such like Comestibles, for the Deipnophagi or eater of Suppers), and thence provide ourselves with one of the Welsh Rarebits or Scitamenta, whereof we are treating, we shall discriminate upon the Dissolution or Discerption of its parts, that it consisteth not of any Carnal Substance, but simply of a Superstratum of some flavous and adipose Edible, which, to the Sense of Vision, seemeth like unto the Unguent, denominated Basilicon, or, the Emplastrum appellated Diachylon; whilest to the Sense of Olfaction it beareth an Odour that hath an inviting Caseous or Cheesy Fragror, and fulfilleth all the conditions and Predicaments of caseous matter or Cheese, which hath undergone the process of Torrefaction; whereof, indeed, if we submit a portion to the Test of the Gust, we shall, from the peculiar Sapor appertinent thereto, without Dubitation determine it to consist.

And, thirdly and lastly, by Synthesis. If we provide ourselves with about a Selibra or half pound of the Cheese, entitulated _Duplex Glocestrius_, or Double Gloucester; and then go on to cut the intrinsic caseous Matter into tenuous Segments or Laminæ; and, positing such Segments within the coquinary commodity distinguished by Culinarian's as the _Furnus Bataviœ_ or Dutch Oven, submit the same to the Fire, until by the action of the Caloric they become mollified unto Semiliquidity: whereupon, if we diffuse the caseous fluid on an Offula of Bread, the Superfices whereof hath been previously torrified, and then Season the same with a slight aspersion of the Sinapine, Piperine, and Saline Condiments, or with Mustard, Pepper, and Salt, we shall find that the Sapor and Fragror thereof differ in no wise from the Gust and Odour of the Edible we had præ-attained from the Covent Garden Cœnatorium; and, consequentially, that the Welsh Rabbit is not, as the Vulgar Pseudodox conceiteth, a species of Cuniculus vernacular to Wales, but as was before predicated, simply a Savoury and Redolent Scitamentum or Rarebit, which is much existimated by the _Cymri_ or Welsh people, who, from time prætermemorial, have been cognized as a Philocaseous, or Cheese-loving, Nation.

THE MILITARY ACADEMY IN AN UPROAR.
]

The Naughty Life-Guardsman.
]

THE EDUCATION OF THE SOLDIER.

A great deal of Ink has been shed upon the question whether DILWORTH should enter the army; but we have met with no greater instance of the necessity of sending the sons of Mars, or, in other words, the children "in arms," to an infant school, than the following copy of verses which were picked up in one of the Areas of Albany Street, and which are supposed to be the outpourings of some Cupid in the Life Guards, to his Psyche in the Kitchen:—

"Creeping like Snail lazily to School."
]

The Life-Guardsman on his Pegasus.
]

TO THE IDLE OF MY HEART.

ark! to the Blarst of Waw, luv,
fal, la, lal, la
hit His the cannings Raw, luv,
fal, la, lal, la
yes! yes! that Marshall Orn, luv,
purclames i must be Gorn, luv,
and brake that Art of Yourn, luv,
fal, la, lal, la

wy duz that buzzum Sy, luv,
fal, la, lal, la
hand teers bejew that High, luv,
fal, la, lal, la
but Hair i Mounts my charjer, luv,
i Wood the gift wur Larger, luv,
take thou this Here mustarsher, luv,
fal, la, lal, la

we Har the boys for Luving, luv,
fal, la, lal, la
for deth we dont Care Nuffin, luv,
fal, la, lal, la
but Hif i Falls a marter, luv,
sa will you Hever Harter, luv,
weep Hore my sad Departur, luv,
fal, la, lal, la

THE SICK GOOSE AND THE COUNCIL OF HEALTH.
]

WELTHE, HELTHE, AND HAPPINESSE.
A RYGHTE MERRIE CONCEITTE.

In Inglande's fam'd Metropolis
There dwelte inne dayes of yore,
A wondrous greate Philosopher,
Uppe inne a seconde flore.

His lerninge was prodigious,
And ofte myghte he be sene,
Wastinge y^e mydnyghte rushlyghte, o'er
Y^e Pennie Magazene.

Eftsoons his fame came to y^e eares
Of one steept to hys chinne
Inne sicknesse and inne miserie,
And shockinge shorte of tinne.

He hadde been jilted by y^e mayde
Who sholde have been hys spouse,
He'd y^e Lumbagoe inne hys loynes,
Y^e Sherriffe inne hys house.

So he soughte out y^e sage's celle,
Resolv'd to take advise,
And didde for y^e Philosopher
Y^e myddel belle ringe twyce.

Y^e sage came downe immediatelie
Y^e soundes felle onne hys eare,
Inne trothe y^e greate Philosopher
Didde thynke it was hys beere.

But, whenne he saw y^e Invalede,
And lernt whatte he didde lacke,
Y^e sage he kindlie askéd hym
Uppe to his two paire backe:

For, like a nutte, y^e sage was kinde
Atte hearte, tho' roughe inne huske,
And to afflixion kepte hys eares
Open from tenne tille duske.

So he y^e sorrie Invalide
Withe everie kindnesse treted,
He drewe a trunke from neathe hys bedde,
And begg'd he wolde be seated.

"Now lette me heare from thee," he sedde,
"Thy sorrowfulle reporte;
Tho' yffe 'tis longe," observed the sage,
"Be plees'd to cutte itte shorte."

Thenne brieflie spoke y^e Invalede,
"Y^e wretche who to thee comes
Is sufferinge bytterlie from Love,
Lumbagoe, and y^e Bummes."

"Butte," said y^e greate Philosopher,
"Whatte seekeste thou of mee?
Thou arte a manne withe whom I feare
Itt's nearlie alle U—P."

"Oh no!" exclaim'd y^e Invalede,
"You'll clere me from this messe,
Iffe you'll tell me ye Waye to Welthe,
And Helthe, and Happinesse."

"I feare," sedde y^e Philosopher,
"Thatt's more thanne I canne doo;
To solve so deepe a problemme, boye,
Requires a pype or two."

He fill'd hys bowle, thenne pufft and thought,
And mutter'd "No! that's notte itte!
Y^e waye to Welthe!—Yes! lette mee see!
I' feckings! boye, I've gotte itte!"

"Marke welle my wordes," thenne sedde y^e sage,
"Yffe thou dost longe for rytches,
A quack Lyfe Pille withe golde wille fille
Y^e Pockettes of your britches."

"Moste surelie," crie'd y^e Invalede,
"Thatte is y^e waye to Welthe;
Butte oh! thou greate Philosopher!
Whiche is y^e waye to Helthe?"

"Thatte's quicklie tolde," returned y^e sage,
"Y^e Quacke Pille, whenne you make itte,
Lette others swallowe!—butte be sure,
Neverre yourselfe to take itte."

"Oh, lerned sage!" y^e youthe exclaim'd,
"Thy wordes I'll live to bless!
Butte one more question stille remanes,
Y^e waye to Happinesse."

"Yffe that you'd know," replied ye sage,
"Withe thee this maximme carrie;
As you wolde lede a happie lyfe,
Take my advise-Don't marry!"

Y^e Invalede returnéd home,
And liv'd to be four score,
Amasst ne ende of golde, and died
A happie batchelore.

"THERE NEVER WERE SUCH TIMES."
]

Here we are again!
]

"Time Flies."
]

Just hatched.
]

TEMPUS EDAX RERUM.

Old Time is a regular glutton,
Something dainty for ever he's munching;
The leg of a Statue's his dinner,
And the wing of a Palace his luncheon.

Rhodes' Colossus is merely a chicken,
In the maw of this greedy old soul;
And Stonehenge only rashers of granite,
And Pompeii a "toad in the hole."

Trajan's Column to him's a Poloney,
And the Pyramids Omelettes Soufflées;
Irish stew are ould Erin's Round Towers,
And a nice little hash is Herne Bay.

But of late, he'd had little worth eating,
So one day he—inclin'd for a treat—
At the Board of Works called to inquire
What new buildings they'd got he could eat.

The Commissioners said, "They were sorry
They'd got nothing nice for him; but
There's the Wellington Statue just up, Sir,
And Westminster Bridge in low cut.

"Nelson's Monument wasn't quite ready"
For old Edax Rerum to swallow;
"But he might have the National Gallery,
With Trafalgar Square Fountains to follow."

But though he lik'd things in bad odour,
The Gallery pleas'd not his whim;
For though very fair game was the building,
'Twasn't rotten enough yet for him.

"On the ruins of Greece have I feasted,"
Cried Old Time, with contemptuous raillery;
"And having a taste for the Parthenon,
How the deuce can I stomach that Gallery?"

COME, MOVE ON THERE, MY MAN.
]

THE STAGE COACHMAN AND THE POST BOY.
AN IMAGINARY CONVERSATION.

STAGE COACHMAN (_meeting Post Boy_).

Vy! who'd a thought o' seeing you! Vell! how's your vife and fammerly?
and how do you find yourself, Muster Joe?

POST BOY.

Only middlin', thank ye!—but how can you hexpect a man, who's a yarning
nuffin a-veek, to find himself, I should like to know?

STAGE COACHMAN.

Ah! these here is hard times for you and me, Joe; since every
hindivid'al hobjects vith us now to ride—
I'm blow'd if I an't been empty for this month past, and gone every
journey vith nuffin at all in my hinside.

POST BOY.

And as for the matter of po-chaises, Vill'm, bless you! there's so
plaguy little for a boy now to do—
That I'm sure I don't know how I should ever be able to ive, if I
didn't hoccasionally make a dinner out of a "Fly" or two.

STAGE COACHMAN.

Vell! all I can say is, Joe, I can't keep on a running of my coach
vithout never no passengers;
Only, I can't a-bear the hidea of my poor 'osses a going the vay of all
'oss-flesh, and a being made into beef sassengers.

POST BOY.

Yes! that'll be the hend on the poor critturs, no doubt; for I have
heerd—and it sartinly is my belief—
That, since the railvays have come in, many houses in town rig'larly
every veek biles down three 'osses and a gallovay for halamode beef.

STAGE COACHMAN.

Cuss all railways and steam ingins, says I! I vonders how people can
like to travel by sitch houtlandish modes—
Only, to be sure, there is jist now vot they calls a "Manier" for
mangling all the country, and hironing all the roads.

POST BOY.

And if they only goes on a using up the iron in the vay they're now
doing, depend on it, Vill'am—though I hopes I shan't live to see it!
Every poor 'oss that is left vill be hobligated to vander about the
streets, vithout never so much as a shoe to his feet.

STAGE COACHMAN.

And vorser still!—Hang me! if each blessed Landlord vont be hinsolvent,
and each blessed hinn be sqvashed—
For I heerd t'other day that even "THE RED LION" had got over his head
and ears in debt, and vas a going to get vhitevashed.

STEAMED OUT,
or the Starving Stage-Coachman and Boys.
]

POST BOY.

They do say, too, that the Sheriff has seized all "THE HANGEL'S"
things, and "THE 'OLE IN THE VALL" is to be closed afore another
twelvemonth comes round—
And, vot's more! that "THE PIG IN THE POUND"'s broke, and von't be
hable to pay his creditors nuffin at all votsomdever in the pound.

STAGE COACHMAN.

And then the Chambermaids has all gone to stand behind mahogany
counters at the Stations—though a body would hardly think it—
Vhere they sarves out hot tea and soup, to poor half-starv'd devils of
passengers, vot arn't hallowed no time to drink it.

POST BOY.

All the Boots, too, has turned railvay policemen, and hangs out them
signals, of vhich you've werry likely heerd speak;
And vhich they uses to purvent the gen'l'men, as is travelling in sitch
a werry particular hurry, a being druv slap into the middle of next
veek.

STAGE COACHMAN.

Yes! and the vorst of that there cursed railvay is, that vhenever there
is a haccident on it—
The're sartin to mangle a person's poor body so, that even the Coroner
don't like sitting upon it.

POST BOY.

And though, Vill'am, I've bolted with dozens of heiresses in my time, I
an't had a 'lopement for this plaguy long vhile;
For the 'appy couples, hang 'em! now takes a "day ticket" to Gretna
Green, and runs avay in the most hunromanticated style.

STAGE COACHMAN.

Yes! and vhere now is that beautiful purcession, on the fust of May, to
show off the new scarlet coats of the Drivers of Her Majesty's
mails?
Vy! if there vos to be sitch a thing, now-a-days, Joe! it 'ud be nuffin
but von one long line of them beastly dirty Stokers to them nasty
filthy rails.

POST BOY.

Vell! Vill'am, I only vish I vas the hingineer to them there railvay
trains—and then their business I vouldn't be werry long sp'iling;
For, if I only had the driving of all of them as likes travelling
behind steam ingins, blow me! but I'd bust the bilers of the whole
biling.

STAGE COACHMAN.

And, as for my part, if I only had the tooling along of them there
D'rectors—into 'em, Crikey! Joe, vouldn't I stick it?
Yes! I'd tool 'em along slap to that "bourne from which no traveller
returns;" or, in other words, from which nobody can't get no "Return
Ticket."

ADVICE TO PARENTS AND GUARDIANS.

(_Strictly private and confidential._)

MY VERY DEAR FRIENDS,

I have frequently observed your praiseworthy though unavailing attempts to reduce your domestic expenses, by getting your wards and daughters "off your hands." I regret to say I have seen much energy on your parts misdirected, and many an elegant and expensive supper given by you to no purpose.

Now, to prevent these failures in future, and to allow the "dear girls" a better chance of getting "comfortably settled" in life, I am about to confide to you a secret, which experience has shown me to be well worth knowing.

What I would first ask you, is the primary object of all evening parties? Why do you engage Weippert's band, or order your supper and ices from Gunter? Is it—candidly now between ourselves—to make your friends happy? Or is it not to catch some amiable and independent young bachelor, who is willing to make your girl the partner of his bosom and banker's account? Of course you are people of the world, and don't mind throwing one of Gunter's sprats to catch an aristocratic herring.

To command success, however, in this style of marital fishing, one thing, let me tell you, above all, is necessary, and that is, a conservatory leading from the ball-room. Think, oh ye Parents and Guardians! for a moment of the advantages of such an arrangement.

The bashful or timid young man, after the quadrille, is sure to propose a temporary retirement among the flowers, because they afford him something beyond the weather to talk about, and if he only be matrimonially disposed, no place—depend upon it—is more likely to make him speak out. For instance, he asks the young lady to pick him a Camelia, she does so of course, and, if she has nice eyelashes, takes advantage of the opportunity afforded her, to display some little timidity and the said eyelashes while arranging the leaves. But if not blest with those bewitching adjuncts to a pretty face, I have known a half-suppressed sigh from the interesting creature answer very well; for your bashful young gentleman very frequently labours under the notion that he is a lady-killer; and ten to one but he is thus led to think he has made a conquest of the poor girl, and so, resolving to make her happy, proposes on the spot.

The conservatory is quite as useful for what is called "the fast man," or for the man of the world, or indeed for any other species of the genus _homo_; though of course the treatment must in each of these cases be judiciously varied.

Your "fast man"—who is generally given to capacious coat-sleeves, and an eccentric narrowness of neckcloth—prefers a young girl with "something to say for herself," and who does not leave him to supply all the conversation. "The agreeable rattle" should therefore be kept up by the young lady, and if the dear girl have a pretty hand she may take off her "Houbigant," and amuse herself by dipping her taper fingers in the basin of the little fountain, with its three miserable gold fish. The "fast man" will then probably essay a joke, or a compliment, whereupon the young lady may playfully sprinkle him with a few drops of water; and thus, doubtlessly, matters will proceed, until the "rapid" gentleman thinks her "a deuced nice girl with no nonsense about her;" so that the flirtation, if not nipped by bad management in the bud, may, in due course of time, blossom into a proposal.

For a sentimental young man the "language of flowers" presents a very "taking" subject for conversation; while to the scientific bachelor, a conservatory affords an easy means for a botanical discussion; besides, the examination of a plant is sure to bring the faces of the couple into proximity; and no disciple of Linnæus, however ardent, is proof against that peculiar thrill which is caused by a pretty girl's glossy and perfumed ringlets brushing against the cheek.

With the matter-of-fact young man a conservatory is quite as useful. He likes his own comfort better than anything else, and considers the supper the best part of the evening; a seat among the flowers saves him the trouble of dancing, so that he will think any young lady "a very sensible girl" for proposing such a thing; and, as he considers himself a very sensible young man, why of course the sensible young man would like a sensible young lady for his wife.

In all these arrangements a maiden aunt, or the useful "friend of the family," should be stationed near the conservatory door; for occasionally the "dear girls" are disposed to flirt with Captains, with large moustachios and small means. All elderly mammas having unmarried daughters should be carefully excluded, as every mother of a family is well known to take a malicious delight in interrupting promising affairs of this kind, when their own girls do not form part of the _tête-à-tête_.

Believe me, my dear Friends, yours very sincerely,
A VICTIM TO A CONSERVATORY.

ADVICE TO YOUNG LADIES.

MY DEAR CREATURES,

Yes, you are all dear to me—so dear that when I watch you, as I do at times, most anxiously, I feel how sadly you stand in need of an adviser.

But do not alarm yourselves! I am not going to be ill-natured. No! I will not find fault with Miss Crinoline's bustle; though I certainly must confess it is rather absurd to see her doing the very agreeable in one room, with the hind breadths of her skirt half-way across another. Nor will I say anything to Miss Nude about wearing her dresses so low as she does; for though I am an ardent admirer of the "blanches épaules," still I cannot help observing that she does allow her gown to slip a _leetle_ too far off her shoulders sometimes. But I can't spare Miss Carney, who calls Miss Nude "dear," and then tells me confidentially, "how bad it looks to see such a nice girl as she is go about with her shoulders so dreadfully exposed; that it really makes people think her so bold, and that it's pity some one doesn't tell her of it." And this Miss Carney does with a look of such pretty pity that for a moment I think she is the most good-natured creature since Mrs. Adam, and feel inclined to run and tell the bare shoulders that she ought to be ashamed of herself. It's a great mark of talent in a young lady, by-the-bye, to be able to say ill-natured things in a good-natured way.

And I should most strongly recommend Miss Madonna, who wears her hair plain, not to find fault with Miss Chevelure's crisp ringlets. Why should Miss Madonna say they are not becoming? Miss Chevelure's soft blue eyes and aquiline nose certainly proclaim her to be the prettier of the two; and I would bet my favourite whisker that Miss Madonna is a far better customer to Isadore for cosmetique, bandoline, fixature, and other toilet luxuries than she of the crisp ringlets whom she decries. And why should Miss Madonna be severe upon Miss Blue Stocking (whom she calls her "dear Cloè," and rushes to embrace when she enters the room)? Why should she say that Miss Blue Stocking has her hair dressed "à la Chinoise," to show off her forehead, and make her look more intellectual? But I don't believe it; though I certainly must say that it would be better if the fair _bas bleu_ did wear her hair a little less like the ladies of China, and a little more like those of England.

My dear creatures, take my advice—never call a young lady "dear," when every one knows you detest her; and never try to exalt yourselves by the detraction of others. Depend upon it, the diminishing spectacles of envy do not become you.

Again: I don't like to hear Miss Pertness abusing Captain Rover, and calling him an impudent fellow and a coxcomb in so spiteful a tone; especially when I know that a few evenings back she danced with him nearly every quadrille, and that she is now curling her pretty lip simply because Miss Flirt's sparkling eyes have bewitched the Captain for a time. Nor should Miss Pertness run across the room to Miss Prude (whom she laughs at for "dressing like a girl of eighteen, when all the world knows she's thirty, if she's a day"), to point out how the said Miss Flirt is coquetting with the said Captain Rover.