LINES IN PLEASANT PLACES.

JAP THE GIANT-KILLER.

AFTER THE BALL.He."How can I ever repay you for that delightful Waltz, Miss Golightly?"She (whose train has suffered)."Oh, don't repayme. Settle with my Dressmaker!"

AFTER THE BALL.

He."How can I ever repay you for that delightful Waltz, Miss Golightly?"

She (whose train has suffered)."Oh, don't repayme. Settle with my Dressmaker!"

The Street. Saturday Night.

(By an Eye-witness.)

On a Saturday night, in a crowded street,(The Butcher said "Buy! Buy!")Blue apron and cleaver and all complete,Surrounded with joints of the primest meat,Beef, mutton, heads, carcases, tails and feet,The Butcher said "Buy! Buy!"A succulent chop on the counter lay,(The Butcher said "Buy! Buy!")When a Terrier, scenting an easy prey,Observed to himself, "What a fine display!"And he cooked his eye in a sapient way—The Butcher said "Buy! Buy!"The Terrier jumped through the open sash;(The Butcher said "Buy! Buy!")To his infinite credit—he had no cash—Away with the chop like a lightning flash.(The Butcher, by way of a change, said "Dash!")The Terrier said "Bye! Bye!"

A succulent chop on the counter lay,(The Butcher said "Buy! Buy!")When a Terrier, scenting an easy prey,Observed to himself, "What a fine display!"And he cooked his eye in a sapient way—The Butcher said "Buy! Buy!"

The Terrier jumped through the open sash;(The Butcher said "Buy! Buy!")To his infinite credit—he had no cash—Away with the chop like a lightning flash.(The Butcher, by way of a change, said "Dash!")The Terrier said "Bye! Bye!"

(In the Off Season.)

Cricket is over; the Summer fails:Do you feel rather out in the cold, Sir?Well have a shy at "professional bails":And the Public will cry, "Well bowled, Sir!"

(Supposed to have been "written in Mid-Channel." See published Works of Alfr-d A-st-n.)

This is the sea that greatBritanniarules!The waves salute their mistress. Still I seeFar in our wake the white cliffs of the free.Arise, O tempest, blow, disturb these pools!Ye waves, I love you! Let the puling foolsPrate as they will, but let me ever beTossed on your foaming crests. I shout with glee.While the North wind my poet's forehead cools.O guernseyed sailors, I am of your kin:I too have in my blood the scorn of fearThat faced the storm, what time th' embattled dinBroke on Trafalgar, and an answering cheerFrom British throats proclaimed, "We win! we win!"——Dear me, what's this? Ahem! I'm feeling queer.II.No, no, it shall not be; the poet's eyeShall yet flash fire, his heart shall never fail,Though round about him, blanching in the gale,His fellows falter——Waves, be not too high;Mere height proves nothing. Leave, oh leave me dry.Down, waves! Down, fluttering heart! Why should I quail?Here in the packet of the Royal MailI tread the deck and do disdain to fly.But ah, what pangs are these? No, no!— yes, yes!—Again I say it shall not be—no, no!—At least not yet—but yet I do confessA craven yearning draws me down below.Curst be the words in which I erst did blessThe towering billows——Steward! yo, heave, ho!III.Was it for this I left the pleasant strandOf England, and the leafy country lanes,The ploughs, the cattle, and the creaking wains?Ye sounds that only poets understand,Of sheep-bells tinkling o'er a sunny land,Was it for this I left you, for the gainsOf dew-sprent brow and deep internal pains,Of feeble voice and nerveless clammy hand?Never again shall ocean with his roarAttract me from the firm-built homes of men.Let others steer from shore to farthest shore,Climbing the liquid hills that now and thenBreak and o'erwhelm them—I shall roam no more,Once landed on old Dover Pier again.

O guernseyed sailors, I am of your kin:I too have in my blood the scorn of fearThat faced the storm, what time th' embattled dinBroke on Trafalgar, and an answering cheerFrom British throats proclaimed, "We win! we win!"——Dear me, what's this? Ahem! I'm feeling queer.

II.

No, no, it shall not be; the poet's eyeShall yet flash fire, his heart shall never fail,Though round about him, blanching in the gale,His fellows falter——Waves, be not too high;Mere height proves nothing. Leave, oh leave me dry.Down, waves! Down, fluttering heart! Why should I quail?Here in the packet of the Royal MailI tread the deck and do disdain to fly.But ah, what pangs are these? No, no!— yes, yes!—Again I say it shall not be—no, no!—At least not yet—but yet I do confessA craven yearning draws me down below.Curst be the words in which I erst did blessThe towering billows——Steward! yo, heave, ho!

But ah, what pangs are these? No, no!— yes, yes!—Again I say it shall not be—no, no!—At least not yet—but yet I do confessA craven yearning draws me down below.Curst be the words in which I erst did blessThe towering billows——Steward! yo, heave, ho!

III.

Was it for this I left the pleasant strandOf England, and the leafy country lanes,The ploughs, the cattle, and the creaking wains?Ye sounds that only poets understand,Of sheep-bells tinkling o'er a sunny land,Was it for this I left you, for the gainsOf dew-sprent brow and deep internal pains,Of feeble voice and nerveless clammy hand?Never again shall ocean with his roarAttract me from the firm-built homes of men.Let others steer from shore to farthest shore,Climbing the liquid hills that now and thenBreak and o'erwhelm them—I shall roam no more,Once landed on old Dover Pier again.

Never again shall ocean with his roarAttract me from the firm-built homes of men.Let others steer from shore to farthest shore,Climbing the liquid hills that now and thenBreak and o'erwhelm them—I shall roam no more,Once landed on old Dover Pier again.

THE PROFESSOR OF THE PERIOD.

WhenDrummondwrote of the Ascent of Man,He did not think of the Descent of WomanUpon his poor doomed head. The AssyrianDid not "come down" with wrath more superhuman,Or more like a fierce wolf upon the fold:Mrs.Lynn Linton, sweetest mannered scoldThat ever heresy to judgment summoned,Hath had her dainty will, and drummed outDrummond!Give us a gentle lady, without bias,To play Apollo to a new Marsyas!

PREHISTORIC PEEPS.There were often Unforeseen Circumstances which gave to the Highland Stalking of those days an added zest!

PREHISTORIC PEEPS.

There were often Unforeseen Circumstances which gave to the Highland Stalking of those days an added zest!

(An Unlucky Batsman's Lament after a Season of Slow Wickets.)

Air—"Ask me no more."

Bowl me no more: the man may draw the stumps;The rain may swoop from heaven and swamp the crease;In folds of baize the bat may lie at peace;But oh, too fond of yorkers, breaks and bumps,Bowl me no more!Bowl me no more: 'tis dark at half-past five;The misty light betrays the keenest eye.O Cricket, dismal autumn bids thee die!Bowl me no more: Football is all alive;Bowl me no more!Bowl me no more: bat's fate and ball's is seal'd.I strove to make my thousand, all in vain:Like a great river ran the ceaseless rain,And spoiled the wickets. Lo, I leave the fieldBowl me no more!

Bowl me no more: 'tis dark at half-past five;The misty light betrays the keenest eye.O Cricket, dismal autumn bids thee die!Bowl me no more: Football is all alive;Bowl me no more!

Bowl me no more: bat's fate and ball's is seal'd.I strove to make my thousand, all in vain:Like a great river ran the ceaseless rain,And spoiled the wickets. Lo, I leave the fieldBowl me no more!

(A Story of the Long Vacation.)

"Mr. Briefless," said an eminent solicitor to me the other day, "I want you to go to East Babbleton, in Guiltshire, to see if the Great Gooseberry Will case is still open. It is a matter of vital importance, and I shall be glad if you can attend to it to-morrow."

Referring toPortington, I found that my diary was clear for the day specified, and I expressed my willingness to carry out my client's instructions.

"I must know at once," continued the gentleman, "because I desire to bring the matter before the Vacation Judge on an originating summons. I need scarcely add, that you will get the fullest particulars from the parish clerk."

Although rather imperfectly instructed, I determined to visit East Babbleton. The usual sources of railway information led me to believe that the place was six or seven miles distant from Nearvices in Guiltshire. I determined to go to Nearvices, taking with me my two lads (home for the holidays),George Lewis HerschellandEdward Clarke Russell. Before now I have explained that my sons' Christian names have been selected with a view to assisting (in after years) their professional advancement. We had to start at an unusually early hour from London, and after enjoying the companionship of some sportsmen, who talked about "duck" and "roots" for a quarter of a day, arrived at Nearvices at eleven o'clock. I made at once for the Red Lion, the principal hotel in the town. My sons followed me, eager for breakfast. Until then, they had satisfied their appetite by the stealthy consumption of about half-a-pound of a sweetmeat that is, I believe, known as Japanese Almond Rock.

The "Red Lion" was in a state of great commotion. There were people in high hats at the door, people in high hats looking out of the coffee-room window, people in high hats thronging the hall. With some trouble my lads and I got our breakfast, then I asked for the ostler. He came to me after a pause and awaited my orders.

"I want a trap to take me over to East Babbleton," I said; "and should like to know how much it will cost."

"Very sorry, Sir, but, I can't do it for you. All the carriages in the house are hired. You know, Sir, MissSmithis going to be married, and consequently you can't get a conveyance for love or money."

I was seriously annoyed, as the instructions of my client were explicit.

"I really must get over," I said emphatically; "surely MissSmithcan lend us one of her carriages. You might ask her future husband."

"Can't do that. Sir," replied the ostler; "for we none of us know him. However, I'll see what can be done for you. Could you drive yourself over?"

"Oh,doPapa," shouted my two sons in an ecstasy of delight. "It would besuchfun! and mother isn't here to stop you."

"Well, I will have a shot at it," I returned; "although truth to tell I am a little rusty. I have not driven for some time."

The ostler eyed me rather sharply, and retired. I then thought it my duty to reprove my sons for their ill-timed levity, explaining that their tomfoolery might have caused the ostler to refuse to entrust his equipage to my care.

"But you have never driven in your life?" saidGeorge Lewis Herschell. "Have you, Papa?"

"I cannot say that I have," I replied, with that truthfulness which is the characteristic of my dealings in the domestic circle.

"Oh, what a game!" shoutedEdward Clarke Russell, roaring with laughter.

Severely chiding my offspring, I proceeded to the hall door. The ostler had been as good as his word. There was certainly a conveyance.

"It is not very showy, Sir," said the proprietor; "but I think it will last a dozen of miles or so."

It was a small dog-cart, which conjured up visions of the toy waggon-and-horse department in the Lowther Arcade. There was a horse in the shafts. The harness was imperfect, and the collar showed its straw. However, I took my seat, and the boys got up beside me. Then, amidst the good wishes of the wedding party watching our progress, I started. The horse immediately took up a course over the pavement, and no doubt aware that the illuminating power at East Babbleton was primitive, attempted to carry with him a lamp-post. We cannoned off the pavement into the middle of the road, and were fairly "off."

"If you boys laugh any more," I said, with the utmost severity, "I will turn you out and leave you."

"But Papa, if mother could only see us!" cried the pair, and then they indulged in apparently unextinguishable bursts of merriment.

I had no further time for remonstrance, as the brute of a horse, after beginning in a trot, had suddenly quickened its pace to a mad gallop. And as it did this I noticed that a dust-cart was just in front of us. I dragged at the reins, and with almost superhuman exertions brought the beast to a full stop.

"Which is the way to East Babbleton?" I asked, to explain my rather abrupt pull-up. "Am I taking the right road?"

The dustman looked at me, at the horse, smiled, and answered in the affirmative. Seeing that we were now about to descend a hill, I got down and led the horse by its bridle. The brute resented theattention. So far as I could judge, without being an expert in horse-flesh, it seemed to me to be suffering from tooth-ache. It shook its head when I touched it, and appeared to be disinclined to go further.

"Do get in, Papa," saidEdward Clarke Russell. "Perhaps he will go all right if you leave him alone."

Adopting my son's advice, I mounted the cart, and once again jerked the reins. The beast began at a trot, and then, as before, commenced a mad gallop. We rapidly left Nearvices behind us, and brought ourselves to a stop in front of a haystack.

"You see," I said, "the brute is open to reason. It was stopped by an obstruction. Seeing the futility of further progress, it desisted in its running."

"But look, Papa, at that," criedGeorge Lewis Herschell, pointing to what seemed to be the remains of a coal cart. The wheels were off, the black diamonds were scattered about in all directions, and the shafts were broken.

"Was that an accident?" I asked an old man who was lighting his pipe. The venerable individual paused, looked at the pipe, looked at the pieces of the cart, and looked at me. Then he rubbed the right side of his head with the palm of his right hand.

"Well, yes, it was," he admitted, in an accent I cannot reproduce; but added, in a tone that suggested that mishaps of a similar character occurred on the average every five minutes; "butthataccident happened near an hour ago."

This intelligence rather damped my ardour, and I immediately got off the cart and insisted upon leading the brute down the next hill. The animal protested, and shook its head. Remembering its possible tooth-ache, I treated it with increased courtesy, telling it to "Gee-up" and "be a good horse." I am sorry to say that the creature did not seem inclined to acknowledge my kindness.

Having come to a level piece of road, I once more mounted into the Lowther Arcade dog-cart, and urged on my partially wild career. I had passed a four-winged post at cross roads, and had followed the sign pointing to "Babbleton." I had got safely up to a farm-house, having restraineden routean inclination on the part of my horse to commit suicide by jumping over the parapet of a bridge into a small mountain torrent.

"Is this the way to East Babbleton?" I asked a rather cheery, rosy-cheeked dame, who had been watching our manœuvres with a kindly smile, not entirely exempt from good-natured apprehension.

"No, this is not the road, Master," she returned, in the same unapproachable dialect. "You ought to have borne to the left when you came to the cross-roads."

Seeing that I had to go back, I seized each of the reins and called upon my beast of a horse to make an effort. The noble animal answered bravely to the call, and managed to turn round on a space of turf about the size of a waggon wheel. It was really a very clever performance, and had it been seen by Mr.Ritchie, I fancy would have secured for us a lucrative engagement for a "side show" at the Royal Westminster Aquarium.

"Well, that was a shave surely," said the dame of the cheery countenance; "when I saw your off wheel go up in the air and hang over the ditch I thought it would be all up with ye."

Accepting the compliment with dignified geniality, I asked our fair critic if she could bait our horse.

"Well, I can give him a handful of hay," said the lady; "but I would not take him out of the shafts for worlds. If I untied him I could not put him together again."

Refreshed by the nourishment, our steed started again, and after retracing our steps and nearly upsetting a hay cart, and narrowly running down a pig, we reached East Babbleton in fairly good condition. I looked at my watch and found that we had done the six miles in two hours and a quarter. Having transacted my business, I now turned the nose of my steed homewards. I had noticed with some alarm that I had only an hour to get back to Nearvices if I wanted to catch the train for London. This being so, I saw it was absolutely necessary that I should act with decision. I held a council of war with my two sons, and we came to the conclusion that we must get back as fast at we could, and when there was a difficulty, risk it. We entered our conveyance and started.

I shall never forget the experience. It was absolutely delightful. GivingFlora(I came to the conclusion that my steed with the tooth-ache must have been calledFlora) her head, I urged her to progress as rapidly as possible. The mare promptly answered to the call. I said "chick," and she started off at a mad gallop. We absolutely flew up-hill, down-hill, and would no doubt have entered "my lady's chamber" had not the adjoining cottages been occupied by rustics. At our approach children, ducks, dogs and gipsies fled in terror. We boldly cannoned against waggons and shook milestones to their very foundations. I had long since forgotten my nervousness, and had assumed an air that would have been becoming in an individual nicknamed (let us say) "down the road Billy."

I urgedFlorato "gee up," by suggesting that "five o'clock tea" was waiting for her on her arrival at Nearvices. My two sons,George Lewis HerschellandEdward Clarke Russell, also rendered valuable assistance by waving their straw hats, and singing comic songs with a vehemence that rendered the ballads undistinguishable from war ditties. As we entered Nearvices,Florastumbled, and all but fell. However, with wonderful skill, I picked her up at the end of my reins, and urged her to fresh exertions by a feeble flick of the whip, that expended its force on the shafts and a part of the collar. Again we flew on. We renewed our acquaintance with the attractive lamp-post, we crossed the sharp curve of the familiar pavement, we collided against the monument to a worthy in the market-place, and drove up with a jerk in front of the "Red Lion." I looked again at my watch; we had done the six miles in twenty-two minutes. Considering the hills, dales, and obstructive milestones, a very fair record.

"What, you have come back!" exclaimed the landlady of the "Red Lion." "Why, we never expected to see you."

I found subsequently that the wedding party, after watching our departure, had taken bets about our probable return. The most popular wager seemed to be that we should reappear after midnight with a wheel, a bit of harness, and the whip, but without the quadruped.

I have nothing further to relate save this. That after my recent success I am thinking seriously of giving up the Bar and taking to the road. If I can raise the required capital, I think I shall run a four-horse coach between the Temple and Turnham Green. Both my boys are anxious to give up their school to act as my guard.

By the way, I may add in conclusion that the parish clerk of East Babbleton declared that he had never heard (until I mentioned it) of the Great Gooseberry Will Case. So I suppose that my client must have been wrong in his details.

Pump-Handle Court,September 22, 1894.

(Signed)A. Briefless, Junior.

SELF-EVIDENT.The Colonel."What was that noise I heard just now?"His Nephew."Oh! I was blowing up my Servant!"The Colonel."May I ask why?"His Nephew."Well—aw—you see he is such a confounded Idiot!"The Colonel."But did it never occur to you that if heweren'tsuch a confounded Idiot he would never have been your Servant?"

SELF-EVIDENT.

The Colonel."What was that noise I heard just now?"

His Nephew."Oh! I was blowing up my Servant!"

The Colonel."May I ask why?"

His Nephew."Well—aw—you see he is such a confounded Idiot!"

The Colonel."But did it never occur to you that if heweren'tsuch a confounded Idiot he would never have been your Servant?"

THE CUT DIRECT.Scene—A Norfolk Beach.Mr. and Mrs. Wavely (returning to their tent)."Ah, Mr. McVicar! You remember meeting us at Pitlochrie last Autumn, don't you?"Mr. McVicar."I recollect your Faces perfately well, Sir; but ye'll excuse me obsairvin' that the praisent circumstances are verra, verra different!"[Passes on.

THE CUT DIRECT.

Scene—A Norfolk Beach.

Mr. and Mrs. Wavely (returning to their tent)."Ah, Mr. McVicar! You remember meeting us at Pitlochrie last Autumn, don't you?"

Mr. McVicar."I recollect your Faces perfately well, Sir; but ye'll excuse me obsairvin' that the praisent circumstances are verra, verra different!"

[Passes on.

Transcriber's Note:Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.

Transcriber's Note:

Inconsistent spelling and hyphenation are as in the original.

Back to Index Next