Punch: Punch (75.1878)

November 23, 1878.] PUNCH, OE THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

231

WHAT TYRANTS WOMEN ARE!

Scene—The Start for tlie Meet.

Dramatis Persons—Very small Iwrsey Young Lady; can go like blazes. Young Squire, escort for live day, his pockets very much bulged out.
Site. " You've got the Sandwiches ? " He. "Yes."

She. "And the packet of Tea? They do give one such Stuff at those Publics." He. "There you are."

She. " And the Carrots for my Mare ? " He, " Just look here ! " She. " All right ! Now let us jog on."

very damp, and very sniffling, is holding his lantern under his jacket,
with his arm affectionately round it, as though to keep it warm, and
perhaps by this means impart some additional life to his own pulsa-
tion. Hiding his light under a bushel, as it were.

He regards me with pity, and evidently wonders what on earth

train glides away, and vanishes in a flash of fire : then all is dark-
ness on the Line. I am alone, with my bag, on the platform. At last
a glowworm porter advances to take my ticket. I tell him I am
bound for Mr. Josslyn Dyke's, The Mote, Moss End. By an effort
of memory, as though unaccustomed to conversation, he recalls, after

can have induced me to get out at Bursted Mills. I some hesitation, the name of the house and its owner. I fancy he

The train for Clogsole and Clayboro' is waiting, and there are two : regards me suspiciously, as though I might be a detective in disguise,
other ghosts besides myself going by it. and Josslyn of The Mote a coiner.

"We get into our compartments silently, avoiding one another. The j I am inclined to re-assure him by protesting I mean no harm to
train starts noiselessly. No bustle, no screaming, no life. The wheels ! Josslyn Dyke, that I am his warmest friend, that is, if in these
are muffled, and the rails have been oiled by the greasy fog, for we 1 parts there can be such a thing as a warm friend, unless he go
glide along into a deeper and deeper gloom, and the curtains of mist about in bearskins three deep, with coals of fire heaped on his head
close around us and behind us, deadening all sound, and gradually , like the itinerant roast chestnut vendors in the London streets—
shutting us out from the outer world. which has always struck me as a wonderful invention for keeping

I am wondering what evil genius prompted me to accept Josslyn
Dyke's invitation to his country-house at this time of year ! But
'tis done ! May I arrive safely !

_ We stop at Clogsole. Somebody gets out. I arrive at the fact by
listening attentively. I can just see a shadowy figure—a melancholy

one's head warm.

[Happy Thought.—We have feet-warmers,_ why not "head-
warmers P " Strange that this fashion in our climate should not be
more generally adopted. No need to sell chestnuts ; merely a hat-
full of coals, lighted by the servant when you go out. _ The '' New

shade. He becomes merged in the fog, like the shadow that used to ; patent iron hat for keeping the head warm in winter,"—is a
stand behind the Haunted Man's chair in the Adelphi drama,—and j brilliant idea. Might write, on this subject too, to Mr. Edison.
then he disappears,—perhaps burked on the spot, robbed, and rolled j He'd work it up into something. Only I register it first. The
over into a muddy ditch outside Clogsole Station—to be left till New Patent Coalhole Hat, invaluable for lightness and warmth,
called for. And when will he be called for ? Alas! poor ghost! No brushing required.]

In the old days of murderous romances and thrilling melodramas, Fortunately there is a fly. This is a rare bit of luck. Josslyn
it used to be the innkeeper, or the miller, who gave his victims shelter Dyke hadn't sent it. It has come to take somebody else somewhere
for the night, when their fate was sealed. In these days of steam- j else, and the somebody else's heart has evidently failed him at the
travelling, can it be that the civil station-master has taken the ; last minute, as he hasn't arrived, and can't now for another two
place of the black-browed host of the Roadside Inn, or of Grindoff \ hours. With my bag I take my seat in the fly, and cheer up a
the miller ? bit. No matter to me, now, that the fly has a nasty odour of damp

Clayboro' Station. I dread getting out. I look cautiously round, hav—no matter to me that the doors are warped and close with
I descend. No porter. Nobody. I hear a voice, somewhere in the ! difficulty—no matter that one window won't come up and the other
night air, sighing out sadly " Clayboro "—that is all. j won't go down, and that it rattles, and shakes, and wobbles. These

My luggage—that is, my Wonderful Bag is with me. The phantom' are no discomforts to me note, for I am spared a dirty walk, and