22
PUNCH, OK THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
something alive ? I look and look—it is but a speck, and yet it is—
my heart tells me so—it is my own Frederick !
The speck increases; and now—I can see the very curls of his hair.
He sees me and waves his hand—and now he runs, and how beautifully,
how gracefully he does run!
I put down the telescope, and just look in the glass. And now, the
sky clears up again—for a bit of blue, like a blue eye looks out and—
Frederick runs into the room. He never did look so beautiful!
With such a glow—such a sparkling look—such a—but it's no use;
words seem to faint away at some things.
And now the landlady comes and says the luncheon's ready if we 're
ready. Dear Frederick cries Let's have it—and then says to me,
he's so hungry, he could eat a live Cupid. And then I call him—and
he laughs—quite a cannibal.
I never did see him eat, and—indeed, my appetite is improved with
the sea air—but I never did see him devour so. Quite shocking.
The weather clears up, and as we had such a very little walk yester-
day—just down to the beach and no more—Frederick says if I'll
brave the elements, we'll walk and look at the church. (The spire looks
so pretty from the bed-room window, that I'm sure, it's quite a little
dooe of a church, nestled among the trees.)
Well, we go out. Dear fellow ! he will put on my upper shoes him-
self, looking as I couldn't help observing, looking a little anxious at
the thinness of the soles, which he says he shall reform—pulling on my
over shoes, and tightening my shawl so about me, that I ask him if he
thinks he's rolling up a mummy—and he says no ; quite t/ie reverse ; and
so with a deal of—no, I won't call it nonsense, though I want a word— j
we find ourselves in the garden, and through the other gate into tne
meadow that leads—the landlady told me—the prettiest lover s walk in
the world, to the church.
Aud it is beautiful! (I find that I'm writing all this—and it seems
more real—all as if at the very minute, and I had my pen and ink and
paper in one hand, and my other in Frederick's arm, though—to be
sure—I don't know how that could be !) But it is beautiful; for the
sky is quite blue again, and the clouds have rolled themselves off, and
heaped themselves into mountains of snow, and all is as blue between—
as Frederick says—as somebody's eyes.
How green the grass is! And how beautiful the sheep are! I never
did see such sheep. So elegant of shape, so meek of face, so white in
wool—quite like sheep in Arcadia! And so I remark to Frederick, and
he says I am quite right. The real Southdowns all come from Arcadia.
And then the sheep-bell! I am sure I shall think of that sheep-bell, think
of it, when I've as much silver in my hair—it it ever comes to that—as
there is sweet silver in its sound. What beautiful music ! And I must
have heard it a thousand times, and never heard it sound so before.
What dull ears I must have had' For now, with these green meadows
so quiet all around us; with the dear graceful sheep, and the sound of
the sheep-bell, it seems to me music for the hedge flower-buds to open
their little mouths to, and drink up the music in the silver drops that
run down to their dear—dear little hearts. Now, what nonsense I
can't help writing!
With what a gush comes the perfume of the May that, bad as they
say the season is, loads the hedges ! What lumps of blossom ! I
bid Frederick pluck a piece—one piece—for my flower diary of this
month—this happy, happy, happy month! (Yesterday,—I forgot to put
that_down—yesterday 1 marked with a wild heartsease.)
Was there ever anything so pretty ? anything so charming ? Whilst
Frederick is plucking the hawthorn, a wedding, a country wedding
comes through the gate. They are coming back from church ! The bride
—such a sweet little wild-rose of a thing—and the bridegroom so bro-wn
and handsome ! I can't tell how it is, but when I look in the happy
bride's innocent happy face, the tears come to my eyes, and I feel for
the moment towards her like a sister. I kiss my hand to her, and she
stops and makes the prettiest curtsey; and Frederick—well, I never
was so proud of him—as though he felt even through his arm what was
assing in my mind—Frederick, in his frank way, goes up to the
ridegroom and shakes his hand, and wishes him all happiness.
And so we both go our way; we towards the church, and the young
married folks home to their wedding dinner. God bless them! I must
write that.
; How beautiful are the meadows ! So swelling—so ricn. And we
walk, but still the church is a little further than Frederick thought.
And now the clouds gather thick and black again, and the wind rises,
and—without thinking of it—I do shiver. It is as far to go back as to
go on. The wind howls—-and, as if discharged from twenty thousand
guns, as Frederick says—and without any warning, showers of
had.
Frederick lifts me up—for all the world like a baby, I laughing all
the time—and runs with me under a large tree. He will take off his
over-coat, and wrap about me. And still the hail comes down, cutting
even through the leaves, and bounding and jumping about us. Fre-
derick looks just as sorry as if—dear fellow !—he could help it.
I'm smothered with had-stones, but I laugh and call 'em sugar-plums.
To humour me, he says they are sugar-plums. Wonders how they'll
taste ! And then, with his very lips, takes one, or perhaps two or three
of them from between my throat and my collar.
We hear a cart—yes, a covered cart—in the road. And we get home
—that is to the White Hart—red, and rumpled, and happy.
TAXES ON KNOWLEDGE.
suggested by a sufferer.
EING called out to Bow Street
at Four o'clock, a.m.
to bail a " fast" ac-
quaintance who has
been " out on the
loose."
Having a host of
country appetites, in
the shape of country
cousins, dropping re-
gularly in to dinner
every day in the Cattle
Show; week.
Being recognised in
a Folice Court by
the gentleman " of
fashionable exterior"
in the dock, whom
you remember to have
met at Boulogne last
autumn, and to have
noted in your journal
as " a very entertain-
ing and agreeable
companion."
Happening, in a
moment of weakness,
to boast that you
" know a thing or two " about the Turf, and being perpetually consulted by your
sporting friends in consequence.
Knowing an amateur dramatic author who will insist on making you the
audience of his rejected "heavies."
Being lugged out " sight-seeing," by all your country visitors because you " know
the way about so much better than they do."
Being recognised at a Watering Place by your own green-grocer, while you
are in the act of talking Peerage with your " exclusive"
friends, the Drawlingtons.
And, lastly, knowing one of those artistic ogres, who
entrap unwary friends into their studios, and then make
"models " of them.
OTJB OWN NAVAL INTELLIGENCE.
Vice-Admiral Sir Thomas Chilblain has obtained
Admiralty leave, having been taken in toe by the clipper
gout, to be laid up in ordinary till the end of the winter.
Second Lieutenant Oldboy gave a dinner on board
the Evergreen, on the completion of his eightieth year of
service. He is expected to be promoted to the First
Lieutenancy when the present occupant of that position,
who happens to be just now bed-ridden, shall be suffi-
ciently recovered to get hoisted on board the Blunderer.
The newly built screw steamer Battleshake, which left
the harbour last week with troops for India, has just re-
turned with her screw loose. Every effort has been made
by means of a screw-driver to repair the injury, but it is
expected that some months will elapse before the Battle-
shake can proceed on her voyage. Her Majesty's steam-
frigate Impracticable—built in 1851, when, being found too
small for her boilers, she was converted into a sailing
vessel, and cut down in 1852 without any material im
provement—is ordered in 1853 to be cut up—for fire-
wood.
A LESSON EROit THE SKY.
The clouds have been setting an example to the
Legislature, by giving us an unintermittent supply of
water.____
NO DOUBT OE IT.
Op all the " tricks of trade," perhaps the most deceitful
are the Bottle tricks.
PUNCH, OK THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
something alive ? I look and look—it is but a speck, and yet it is—
my heart tells me so—it is my own Frederick !
The speck increases; and now—I can see the very curls of his hair.
He sees me and waves his hand—and now he runs, and how beautifully,
how gracefully he does run!
I put down the telescope, and just look in the glass. And now, the
sky clears up again—for a bit of blue, like a blue eye looks out and—
Frederick runs into the room. He never did look so beautiful!
With such a glow—such a sparkling look—such a—but it's no use;
words seem to faint away at some things.
And now the landlady comes and says the luncheon's ready if we 're
ready. Dear Frederick cries Let's have it—and then says to me,
he's so hungry, he could eat a live Cupid. And then I call him—and
he laughs—quite a cannibal.
I never did see him eat, and—indeed, my appetite is improved with
the sea air—but I never did see him devour so. Quite shocking.
The weather clears up, and as we had such a very little walk yester-
day—just down to the beach and no more—Frederick says if I'll
brave the elements, we'll walk and look at the church. (The spire looks
so pretty from the bed-room window, that I'm sure, it's quite a little
dooe of a church, nestled among the trees.)
Well, we go out. Dear fellow ! he will put on my upper shoes him-
self, looking as I couldn't help observing, looking a little anxious at
the thinness of the soles, which he says he shall reform—pulling on my
over shoes, and tightening my shawl so about me, that I ask him if he
thinks he's rolling up a mummy—and he says no ; quite t/ie reverse ; and
so with a deal of—no, I won't call it nonsense, though I want a word— j
we find ourselves in the garden, and through the other gate into tne
meadow that leads—the landlady told me—the prettiest lover s walk in
the world, to the church.
Aud it is beautiful! (I find that I'm writing all this—and it seems
more real—all as if at the very minute, and I had my pen and ink and
paper in one hand, and my other in Frederick's arm, though—to be
sure—I don't know how that could be !) But it is beautiful; for the
sky is quite blue again, and the clouds have rolled themselves off, and
heaped themselves into mountains of snow, and all is as blue between—
as Frederick says—as somebody's eyes.
How green the grass is! And how beautiful the sheep are! I never
did see such sheep. So elegant of shape, so meek of face, so white in
wool—quite like sheep in Arcadia! And so I remark to Frederick, and
he says I am quite right. The real Southdowns all come from Arcadia.
And then the sheep-bell! I am sure I shall think of that sheep-bell, think
of it, when I've as much silver in my hair—it it ever comes to that—as
there is sweet silver in its sound. What beautiful music ! And I must
have heard it a thousand times, and never heard it sound so before.
What dull ears I must have had' For now, with these green meadows
so quiet all around us; with the dear graceful sheep, and the sound of
the sheep-bell, it seems to me music for the hedge flower-buds to open
their little mouths to, and drink up the music in the silver drops that
run down to their dear—dear little hearts. Now, what nonsense I
can't help writing!
With what a gush comes the perfume of the May that, bad as they
say the season is, loads the hedges ! What lumps of blossom ! I
bid Frederick pluck a piece—one piece—for my flower diary of this
month—this happy, happy, happy month! (Yesterday,—I forgot to put
that_down—yesterday 1 marked with a wild heartsease.)
Was there ever anything so pretty ? anything so charming ? Whilst
Frederick is plucking the hawthorn, a wedding, a country wedding
comes through the gate. They are coming back from church ! The bride
—such a sweet little wild-rose of a thing—and the bridegroom so bro-wn
and handsome ! I can't tell how it is, but when I look in the happy
bride's innocent happy face, the tears come to my eyes, and I feel for
the moment towards her like a sister. I kiss my hand to her, and she
stops and makes the prettiest curtsey; and Frederick—well, I never
was so proud of him—as though he felt even through his arm what was
assing in my mind—Frederick, in his frank way, goes up to the
ridegroom and shakes his hand, and wishes him all happiness.
And so we both go our way; we towards the church, and the young
married folks home to their wedding dinner. God bless them! I must
write that.
; How beautiful are the meadows ! So swelling—so ricn. And we
walk, but still the church is a little further than Frederick thought.
And now the clouds gather thick and black again, and the wind rises,
and—without thinking of it—I do shiver. It is as far to go back as to
go on. The wind howls—-and, as if discharged from twenty thousand
guns, as Frederick says—and without any warning, showers of
had.
Frederick lifts me up—for all the world like a baby, I laughing all
the time—and runs with me under a large tree. He will take off his
over-coat, and wrap about me. And still the hail comes down, cutting
even through the leaves, and bounding and jumping about us. Fre-
derick looks just as sorry as if—dear fellow !—he could help it.
I'm smothered with had-stones, but I laugh and call 'em sugar-plums.
To humour me, he says they are sugar-plums. Wonders how they'll
taste ! And then, with his very lips, takes one, or perhaps two or three
of them from between my throat and my collar.
We hear a cart—yes, a covered cart—in the road. And we get home
—that is to the White Hart—red, and rumpled, and happy.
TAXES ON KNOWLEDGE.
suggested by a sufferer.
EING called out to Bow Street
at Four o'clock, a.m.
to bail a " fast" ac-
quaintance who has
been " out on the
loose."
Having a host of
country appetites, in
the shape of country
cousins, dropping re-
gularly in to dinner
every day in the Cattle
Show; week.
Being recognised in
a Folice Court by
the gentleman " of
fashionable exterior"
in the dock, whom
you remember to have
met at Boulogne last
autumn, and to have
noted in your journal
as " a very entertain-
ing and agreeable
companion."
Happening, in a
moment of weakness,
to boast that you
" know a thing or two " about the Turf, and being perpetually consulted by your
sporting friends in consequence.
Knowing an amateur dramatic author who will insist on making you the
audience of his rejected "heavies."
Being lugged out " sight-seeing," by all your country visitors because you " know
the way about so much better than they do."
Being recognised at a Watering Place by your own green-grocer, while you
are in the act of talking Peerage with your " exclusive"
friends, the Drawlingtons.
And, lastly, knowing one of those artistic ogres, who
entrap unwary friends into their studios, and then make
"models " of them.
OTJB OWN NAVAL INTELLIGENCE.
Vice-Admiral Sir Thomas Chilblain has obtained
Admiralty leave, having been taken in toe by the clipper
gout, to be laid up in ordinary till the end of the winter.
Second Lieutenant Oldboy gave a dinner on board
the Evergreen, on the completion of his eightieth year of
service. He is expected to be promoted to the First
Lieutenancy when the present occupant of that position,
who happens to be just now bed-ridden, shall be suffi-
ciently recovered to get hoisted on board the Blunderer.
The newly built screw steamer Battleshake, which left
the harbour last week with troops for India, has just re-
turned with her screw loose. Every effort has been made
by means of a screw-driver to repair the injury, but it is
expected that some months will elapse before the Battle-
shake can proceed on her voyage. Her Majesty's steam-
frigate Impracticable—built in 1851, when, being found too
small for her boilers, she was converted into a sailing
vessel, and cut down in 1852 without any material im
provement—is ordered in 1853 to be cut up—for fire-
wood.
A LESSON EROit THE SKY.
The clouds have been setting an example to the
Legislature, by giving us an unintermittent supply of
water.____
NO DOUBT OE IT.
Op all the " tricks of trade," perhaps the most deceitful
are the Bottle tricks.