Punch (67.1874)

222

[November 28, 1874,


PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

UNCONSCIONABLE.

Head of the Firm. “Want a Holiday!? Why, you ’vr just been at Home

III for a Month ! ”

THE LAST OE SIR ROGER.

There comes a message from the sea
To tell how Roger Tichborne—he
Who, by his waste of early years.

Taught perjurers’ hopes to outweigh fears—

Far in the South Pacific died,

And sleeps the lonely wave beside.

It may be false, it may he true,

It carries hut a doubtful hue ;

But this is clear—the artful dodger,

Whose vulgarisms were “ just like Roger,”

Had ne’er found knaves, or misled fools,

Onslow and Whalley made his tools,

But for the fact that Roger went
Away in moody discontent,

Broke ties of duty, hearth and home,

In wild, unsettled lands to roam,

Went, Heaven knows whither, Heaven knows why,
In some far wilderness to die.

This is the lesson of the case :

Young men of our strong English race,

Destined to hold ancestral land,

Rule yourselves if you’d learn command ;

Rush not to savage rudeness, weary
Of polish by excess made dreary,

From too luxurious life’s routine,

Seek Himalayan change of scene;

Turn from the traps of Hurlinghame
To veldt’s or prairie’s wilder game,

For dull battue and tedious drive
Seek lions to keep sport alive,

And try if bisons can restore
A warmth that foxes wake no more.

Nor if some high-heeled, chignoned girl,

Of Prince’s paragon and pearl,

Snub you, or with cold shoulder freeze,

Seek squaw at the Antipodes.

Noblesse oblige : this lesson take,

Ye gilded youth, for England’s sake:

All time ill-spent revenge will wreak ;

In life’s stern law, they pay that break ;

In person oftenest you make payment,

Sometimes Sir Roger breeds the Claimant.

and said, “ Monstrous pretty things they wear on their heads,
Betsy ! Sensible things, too! Much better than the little bits of
lace and flowers that you call ‘ bonnets,’ which are only fit to throw
in the hedges for the birds to line their nests with.”

I really thought I should have liked to bite him. I wonder he
didn’t expect his words to bring a judgment on him.

The dining-room in the estaminet was filled with short tables,
except near the middle, where there was a large stove covered with
steV-pans full of tripe, that smelt very nice. Most of the tables
were full, and most of the people were eating tripe; but some were
playing dominoes, and making so much noise that I thought they
were quarrelling. We sat down at a side-table; John and me on
one side with our backs to the wall, and Jewl on the other side
facing us. The waiter seemed to know John very well—as well he
might, John having been there so often; and when John ordered
“ Three tripes,” and held up three fingers, the plates were brought
directly.

“ Betsy,” said John, “ what will Mr. Petty Tom take to drink ?
I should like to humour the little feller. I daresay he don’t often
get a drink.”

I didn’t feel quite so sure about that, but I said that cider, which
was the drink of the place, would do very well for us. So the cider
was brought, and then John ordered cigarettes for himself and
Jewl.

“Precious snug this is, Betsy,” said John; “it’s just like old
times.” ^ And he glided his arm round my waist.

I didn’t like to take my waist away, though of course I felt very
angry; but I’d always heard Aunt Jemima, say that “ A wilful
waist makes woful want,” and I didn’t wish to bring John to want
on my account. Jewl said nothing, but his eyes looked quite stern
at me through the smoke of his cigarette.

After we had sat there for about an hour, John said, “Now,
Betsy, it’s time for us to go. Mr. Petty Tom will take you and
the basket home, and 1 shall have a quarter of an hour with the
little portooses as I go back to old Blatherwick.”

“0, John!” I said, “how can you talk so?” And I felt fit
to cry.

As Jewl and I walked home together he never spoke a word. I

tried bard to get him to talk, but he would keep on humming a song
with a chorus like this :—

“ Ma Fretillon,

Cette fille
Qui fretille

Mourra sans un cotillon; ”

by which, I believe, he meant to tell me that a girl who flirted would
get “ the crooked stick ” at last.

When we got to our front gate he set down the basket, made me
a very low bow, and walked away without saying a word.

When I got in, Cook said, “Lor’, Elizabeth, how white you
look! Haven’t you heard the good news ? ”

“ What news, Cook ? ” I said, as I sank into a chair.

“Why, the news as Miss Edith have brought home : that we are
all going back to London, and the Blatherwicks too, as soon as old
Blatherwick has settled some business he has got in the Fair and
the Market. For my part, I’m glad of it. Kitchen-stuff fetches a
better price in London than it does here; and there ’s more of it,
too. Waste isn’t allowed here, and ‘ waste ’ means ‘ kitchen-
stuff.’ ”

“Ah! Cook!” said I, “what is the waste you talk about com-
pared to wasted hearts ? That’s what they waste here ? ”

“ Well, my dear,” said Cook in her prosy way, “ I never sold a
wasted heart, but I should think the difference can’t be much—not
above a halfpenny a pound, I should say.” And she went on
dressing her dinner.

{To be concluded in our next.)

Lunar Rays.

It is stated that the apprehension of the supposed Nana Sahib
was occasioned by a letter written at his dictation to the Maharajah
Scindiah by a certain “moonshi.” There seems reason to believe
that “moonshi,” regarded as an abbreviation, is a term less applic-
able to the amanuensis than to the letter, of which the contents, if
they were really dictated under the influence of “bhang,” are, it is
presumable, mere moonshine.