Punch (73.1877)

October 6, 1877.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 115

DELIGHTFUL DRESSES.

b serve, that the domain of
Social Science is taken to
include the province of
Art, So at least it seems
from the circumstance
that a Section of the latter
took part last week in the
Congress of the former at
Aberdeen, and discussed
Art competitions, and
taste for Art furniture,
bric-d-brae, and china;
thereafter likewise can-
vassed a paper read by-
Miss Burton on " Beauty
not incompatible with
Labour." According to a
report, which omits to say
whether or no there arose
any question if domestic
service in the capacity of
John Thomas or Mary
Anbte was to be called
"labour," and was in-
jurious, or harmless, or
J IIH* even beneficial to personal
appearance, and what
effect, in point of beauty,
hard'work'had, generally,
upon fishwives, washerwomen, and charwomen':—

" Misa Lydia Becker took part in the discussion. She insisted that the
principles of Art might as well be applied to dress as to pictures. She ap-
proved the sentiment of a Frenchman who said that a well-dressed lady had
a sense of inward tranquillity which religion could not bestow."

There is an appropriate smartness in this argument for smart
dressing—if " smart" is a word applicable to dress designed upon
any principles of Art. Probably, the Frenchman's idea of a well-
dressed lady, whose dress inspired her with a peace of mind exceed-
ing the serenity of a saint, did not exactly correspond to that of a
Minerva or even a Venus in antique drapery. Nor is that perhaps
the kind of dress which Miss Becker means, for she can hardly
have ever worn it, and yet she must have experienced, to under-
stand, the sense her Frenchman declares to be enjoyed by a well-
dressed lady. Perhaps it is her habitual frame of mind. Who
would not go some way to see Miss Lydia Becker in the costume
which so interiorly delights a lady well dressed ?

Does not the sentiment as to dress, however, which Miss Becker
approves of, literally considered, savour originally rather of an
esprit fort; although sympathy with it can scarcely have been ac-
quired in companionship with strong-minded women " ? Let Miss
Lydia look out for very serious censure on her expression of that
sympathy. She may expect to get severely preached at in an occa-
sional discourse shortly to be delivered by a Right Reverend Bishop
accustomed to understand epigrams, and other sayings, not intended
for ears of his kind, in their literal sense.

THE LAST OE A FEW DAYS IN A COUNTRY-
HOUSE.

The Morning after—Breakfast—Grumpiness—Everybody Wrong
— Threatening of Storm—Chaff—First Disagreeable—Second—
Third—All Disagreeables—Division—Parting Shots—The Last
to Leave—The Telegram—The Note—A Cheerful Arrival—
My Departure—Boodels' Consolation—End.

The morning after the Symposium. Irregular breakfast. Dull
morning. Leaden sky. Everything damp, specially the boots,
Which come up as if they'd been cleaned under the pump. A slimy
chill about the atmosphere generally, such as one might feel for a
minute or two after putting one's hand suddenly and unexpectedly
on a pond-frog. The perverse glass in the hall is, of course, going
up. The eccentric weathercock in the meadow is twisting about,
restlessly, up above, as much as to say, "Here's your fine fresh
air! Climb up here ! Here's your fine fresh air at the top of the
pole! "

As we drop in, one by one, to breakfast, Mrs. Buddeemer (in a
long green velvet dress, and a very pronounced gold chain round
her neck, and tucked in at her waist somewhere, suggesting the idea
of a Diana Vernon who had been made Lady Mayoress) holds up
her hands, and pretends to be shocked. Miss Buddermer blushes
and simpers. I observe to her, " We were rather late last night,
Miss Buddebmeb." She replies, in her usual startled manner,
"Yes—very." Then she blushes deeper than ever, simpers ner-

vously, and hurriedly putting up her pince-nez looks straight through
it, earnestly, at the tea-urn, as if for protection.

Buddebmeb has, as usual, been down before any of us, and is
seated on the Telegraph reading the Times. Mumley the Poet has
intimated that he does not wish for any breakfast, and has gone as
far as the Pond to look at the Trimmer.

Milbubd is less noisy than usual, and asks for a bloater. He
speaks of himself as "feeling a bit chippy," and wonders how
Caltop got home. We all wonder how Caltop got home; for, as
no one saw him leave, there is a generally pervading idea that he is
still in the house, having perhaps tumbled into the hat-and-cloak
closet, and there passed the night.

Boodels comes down, complaining bitterly of a headache. He
will take nothing but very hot tea, and very dry toast. He remarks
that he can't account for his feeling so unwell this morning, as last
night he didn't sit up later than usual, and really did not take half
so much as he ordinarily does. Pogmore the Composer, who looks
pale about the cheeks and very red about the eyes, but who tries to
keep up an air of forced gaiety, observes that he thinks everyone
had too much last night.

Boodels won't admit it for an instant. " You may have had too
much," he says to Pogmore. " / hadn't; and I'm sure no one else
had."

At this, the Bald Philosopher, from behind his newspaper, elevates
his eyebrows, but makes no observation. Pogmore looks at Mil-
burd and myself significantly, and Milbubd says,

" Well, I fancy that Caltop had as much as was good for him."
Thereby evidently intending that the gentleman in question had
taken more than was good for him.

"No," Boodels replies positively, and really charitably, "7
don't think so. In fact," he adds, which, by the way, shows his
reason for acquitting Caltop of inebriety, " I don't think anyone
took too much J know L didn't ! "

"At all events," says Pogmore, sticking to his point, "no one
can eat breakfast this morning."

" That's the weather," retorts Boodels, becoming rather annoyed
at Pogmobe's persistence in charging him and his guests with an
orgie. " Besides," he adds, looking round, " it strikes me everyone
has made a very good breakfast."

" Capital! " cries Milbubd. To which sentiment I also respond
affirmatively, feeling it due to Boodels as our host.

"I'm afraid we kept you up very late, Mrs. Buddebmeb,"
Boodels says courteously, but inquisitively, a,s if her evidence on
the matter would settle the question.

" Oh, not at all! " she replies, cheerfully; " I'm accustomed to
it. When we were at Swyllin—Lord Lushbobough's place, you
know—in Hertfordshire—we used to sit up much later than that
every evening."

Buddebmeb, having finished his papers, and probably foreseeing
that he will be lugged in to corroborate his wife's recollections of
the aristocracy, rises, stretches himself, walks to the window, looks
out, and observes, " I wonder where the Hare is this morning ? "

He refers to the hare, or rabbit, which has regularly come out to
feed on the Lawn since we've been in the house. For a bald man,
in the presence of such a professional wag as Milburd, he could not
have made a more unfortunate remark.

"Where's the Hare?" repeats Milburd. "Why, that's what
you must say every morning when you look in the glass ! Ha! ha!
ha! " And Milbubd roars. Then, seeing that Mrs. Buddebmeb is
bridling up, that Miss Buddebmeb is blushing, and that everyone is
made uncomfortable by this personality, he bursts into a guffaw,
slaps Buddermer on the back, " Eh ? Ha ! ha! ha! Where's the
hair ? Eh ? " Then, holding his victim's elbow, and addressing
us, he shouts, "That's what he asks every morning! The long-
lost hair ! Eh ? Have you got a strawberry-mark on your left
arm ? " This to Buddermeb, who is stroking his beard, and trying
hard to preserve his philosophic calm ; but he is glaring dan-
gerously. Under much of this torture Buddebmeb would go mad.

Unfortunately, Milbubd is not to be put down by any repartee,
however brilliant, or by any retort, however rude. In either case
he will simply repeat his own jest with louder laughter and more
slaps on his victim's back, or digs in his victim's ribs. Nor is he to
be put down by brute force, for Milbubd Junior is a cricketer, an
athlete, and as strong as a cart-horse. He is a sort of Franken-
stein's Monster suddenly become a stupid jester and perpetual
practical joker, and we, pro tern., are Frankensteins, each in turn.

Mrs. Buddebmer leaves the room, followed by her daughter.
Buddermer stalks out by the window, and the rabbit or hare, or
whatever it is, frightened, makes a bolt into the laurels. < He walks
round the house, frowning, and subsequently is seen to join the Poet
at the Pond. When we next observe them they are standing
gloomily, about three yards apart, with their backs to the house,
contemplating the Pond, while between them stands, sympatheti-
cally, the Peruvian Goose with the port-wine beak. The three are
as motionless, with the exception of an occasional sign of life m the
Goose's tail plumage, as if they'd been frozen up on the spot.

vol. lxxiii.

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