Punch (67.1874)

178

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[October 31, 1874.

SYMPATHY !

Epicurus. “ Pah ! 0, good gracious, Mivins, that last Oyster was

ugh ! ’ ’

Butler {with feeling). “ T-t-t-t—dear me ! Corked, Sir?!!”

LABOURERS IN DEVON.

The fine Old Devonshire Labourer
Is coming forward now;

He seems resolved to make a stir,

This driver of the plough ;

He’s tired of sourish cider
And weekly “hob” eleven,

And he hears the world is wider
Than the pleasant shire of Devon,

So out he comes, Jan Lacland,

To speechify and listen ;

And good Sir Thomas Acland
Gives him a room of his’n :

He tells his sorrows and strong dislik es,

And looks uncommon blue,

Grumbling away till midnight strikes—
Punch hopes he won’t strike too.

“ We finds all things are dearer
Except ’tis sugar and tea,

And to give a man a cheerer,

Why, what he they to we ‘i
Us can’t get a mossel of roast beef
On Sundays for to carve;

Us thinks it mean to set up a machine,

And let poor labourers starve.”

It is the old, sad story ;

But the Demagogue makes things worse,
When, for pay or for paltry glory,

He acts as a travelling curse.

The man who rants and clamours and cants
Is a downright plague and pest:

Pity that fools who have failed in the East
Should carry the war to the West.

Ecclesiastical Divisions.

In the late Triennial Convention of the American
Episcopalian Church, proceedings, the other day, began
with “the consideration of a petition from the Church
of Hew Jersey, asking that this diocese should be divided
in two.” The diocese of Hew Jersey differs remarkably
from all the dioceses of Old England. It is not divided
into two yet. But, comprising High, Low, and Broad
Church parties, every one of our own dioceses has been
for some time divided at least into three.

“ELIZABETH'S RESIDENCE IN A ERENCH
COUNTRY HOUSE."

FRAGMEHT THE SIXTH.

Hopes and Fears.

Somehow or other, things never look the same, when you wake in
the morning, as they did overnight; and, when I woke the morning
after I had danced with Jewl at the Ducasse, I couldn’t help think-
ing that, after all, John would have been more suitable than Jewl.
For, of course, I knew that, if I married Jewl, I should have to
live in France; for “ where the goat is tied there she must browse,”
you know, and I was quite sure that that wouldn’t suit Grandmother
and Aunts at all. I knew that they wouldn’t so much mind John,
because, if I married him, I shouldn’t be so far off hut what they
could go on doing their duty by me, by telling me about all my
faults and most of John’s.

But, of course, if I were married to Jewl and living in France,
with threepence, postage to pay for every letter each way, and Jewl
not understanding a word they wrote, they wouldn’t he able to
study my happiness in this kind way. And I was certain that this
would he a great blow to them, for they had been that fond of me
from my youth up that, even when I was a child, they would rather
have spoilt a rod than have spared me, as the saying is.

Besides, I couldn’t think what would become of Grandmother, if
Sr k®ar<* that I was going to marry a Catholic, and came to think
that her little Betsy, whom she used to whip so often for not

telling, even when I had nothing to “ tell,” was going regularly
to confession. And I was sure she would sink into her grave rather
than be a great-grandmother to a family of little Catholics, as she
would have to be if I married Jewl, for “black cats have black
kittens,” you know ; and Jewl’s children would have to he like
Jewl.

^uj'i^en I remembered that Jewl was a soldier, and that that
would he quite enough to set Aunt Bridget against him, for she’s

a soft-hearted patch, and couldn’t abide to think of me (as she has
spanked so often) living in trenches, and passing my days with
forlorn hopes, and mounting the breaches, as soldiers’ wives must if
they do their duty.

Worse than all, Jewl was a poor man. For it wasn’t to he
thought that he could have saved anything out of his soldier’s pay;
and I remember that Aunt Jemima wasn’t one of those that hold
with marrying poor men (not that she ever had the chance, that I
am aware of), and I couldn’t forget how she used to say, on evenings
when she was cross and I was going to bed without supper, “ Don’t
you ever let me hear you talk of love on a cottage loaf, Betsy, as
long as you live ! Just you bear in mind that ‘ short meals don’t
make long friends,’ and that where the fodder is scarce the donkeys
fight.” And I don’t think I shall forget Aunt Jemima’s lessons as
long as I live.

How, you see, John wasn’t a Catholic; at least if he. was he d
kept it to himself. And he wasn’t even a Volunteer. Besides which
he had been in good wages for ever so long, and I was sure he’d
saved money, because I’ve often heard him talk of taking a green-
grocery shop in West Brompton, and going out “ waiting ”. in the
evenings, whilst, somebody—whom he didn’t name—was waiting at
home for him among the spring vegetables and the early fruit. I’m
told this is what painters call a picture of “ still life,” and, often
and often, my poor foolish heart has painted it in bright colours as
I heard him talk. But then, you see, Jewl had one advantage over
John. John hadn’t asked me, and, for all I could , see, wasn’t
likely to. Perhaps, after all, it was Mary that was going to stand
behind his counter, serving out the early peas and strawberries.
Perhaps it was Mary that was going out with him in the new
market-cart on Sundays to Hampton Court!

How, though Jewl hadn’t asked me either, he was near enough
to have the chance, if he liked to take it; whilst the billows were
between me and John. So the more I thought of ’em both, the
more my heart turned to Jewl, and the more I wanted to see him
again.

As luck would have it, the morning after the Ducasse was our