DOI Heft:
November 2, 1878
DOI Seite / Zitierlink:https://doi.org/10.11588/diglit.17733#0201
November 2, 1878.] PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI. 197
like a dream,—who was she ? I never could quite make out. She
might have been a daughter-in-law—or a daughter, perhaps, They
called her Rose or Myrtle, or some such pretty name with a scent
of summer flowers in it. She was younger, sadder, more spiritual,
I think, than the other. A mystery hung about her—a recollection,
as it were, of sorrow and crime. Done, or suffered ? That was the
question that fascinated me. ...
1 felt that she did not belong to our world, but to some dim
universe of old fables and fluttering tapestries, where heroes agonise
and wives stab their husbands in the dark. I loved her—she was
to me the incarnation of a dream—The faded crewels that she was
always working into the hems and linings of our gowns were the
threads of Penelope's web; the scissors that hung at her chatelaine
were the shivering shears of Fate._ She lives in my mind side by
side with the "Wolf that ate Red Hiding Hood.
II.
Dm he belong to that strange world also ? I have sometimes
thought he did. He had a sleepy look, and a way of calling her
" Sister," that somehow linked them together in my mind. But I
never knew what was the exact relationship between them. . . .
He wore a brown velveteen coat, and looked in. I remember a
cup falling and a little start. R. played on—her cadences fell with
the broken china—the melody floated up among the roses—so did
the steam—it seemed one music, one love, one intensity. ... Is not
this life ? . . . And she sat calm and sweet, with the smile that
somehow made one feel a vague security. . . . He asked me to put
sugar in his tea, and I forgot to do it. . . .
We neither of us spoke—it was enough to be together, and to feel
our youth and the immense beauty pulsating in sunset clouds around
us. There was a glory in every pool—little boys bathed far out
upon the sands—brown cattle came lowing across the common.—
I stooped down and picked a buttercup—its yellow calyx seemed_ to
mirror our happiness. ... A bell rang, and I saw my queen coming
towards us, with the evening glory on her hair. . . .
" Is she not sweet and beautiful ?" I said, holding the buttercup
over my head, and turning to note its beauty against the quiver of
the sultry summer noon. "Is she not sweet and beautiful?" I
said again, for he too was dreaming, and in his sleepy way he had
missed my words.
He yawned slowly, and patted the brown cows, saying, with a
gentle sing-song, " Myrtle is very sweet and beautiful, and she is
my sister.—We are all beautiful here, and we think of nothing
else.—You will get used to it as you see more of us and come to
understand our ways. Will you come to luncheon ? "
" Do come ! " cooed my queen. And I followed her in, wondering
how long it would take me to get used to it. At any rate I was
sure that 1 liked it. . . . At home it was all bustle and confusion,
children tumbling down-stairs, and a red-faced maid-of-all-work. . . .
I already felt the poetry of having a butler and two footmen—I
thought it would be easier to be good here—it was like Sunday.
I told him so—He smiled kindly, and said the butler would take
care of me. How well I remember those days of cakes and ale in
the pretty house where it was always summer ! !! Do you not agree
with me, reader, that there are some places where it is always
summer, just as there are some people with whom it is always love ?
I know it was so at X-■; always summer and love and beauty;
and the tide coming up to make strange little adventures for us
among the creeks and landslips, and the sun setting with crimson
throbs, and shooting farewell floods upon the snow. . . .
How those voices used to come up to the window where I sat
dreaming and dallying! They walked up and down so late one
night that I grew nervous. At last she left him, and he stood there
alone.—I could not tear myself away—some vague instinct made me
forbode evil—I leaned out—Suddenly a sound broke the silence—
My heart stood still, but only for a second—in time I knew that
there was no danger. It was the bicycle with its wheels gliding
noiselessly across the terrace. . . .
How did he know that I was standing at Myrtle's window ? . . .
I had no right to be there ; it was only my feverish curiosity that
had brought me—only their voices that made it impossible for me to
go.—How did he know it ? . . . The more I think of it, the more
puzzled I get—It was hardly five minutes since I had left her
brother in the paddock—I had made an excuse to get away from
him, and he had.said good-bye—sadly—I felt it was cruel of me, but
to this day I cannot see how I could help it—Some vague instinct
told me the other was on the terrace. It was an opportunity not to
be missed.
He stopped under the window—the bicycle fell. I was afraid he
was hurt, but I did not scream, for fear of bringing Myrtle. For a
wonder 1 kept cool; and when, a few minutes later, he whispered,
|| All right!" I was able to answer, "Yes." Then he looked
Dearest! " I waved my hand—he was gone—But how did he know
that I should be there ? . . .
Next day I had a scene with Myrtle. . . . She had met him in the
morning, and I think he must have thoughtlessly told her about it,
for she seemed upset. She looked more than usually anxious, my
poor queen ! She had the expression in her eyes, that made me
think of Clytemnestra—the expression that I liked so much! At
those times I never could refuse her anything. There was some
mesmerism in her face, that compelled me to be open. I told her
just what had passed. She made me promise to tell it to no one
else. As she was leaving the room, she turned round, and said,
with a pretty laugh, '' There, be a good girl! Keep my secret, and
I will keep yours. You know if I were to tell him about it, he
would be angry." I had not thought of that myself—but I was
grateful to her for thinking of it. She was always considerate for
others. . . .
(To be concluded in our next.)
MASCULINE AND FEMININE FASHIONS-
Ladies and Gentlemen,—
The Chesterfield Coat
has been revived for
Ladies' wear. It is made
with or without a skirt of
the same material as its
own.
It has pockets in the
style of a gentleman's
coat.
The producers of the Ches-
terfield Coat have happily
adapted both the Coat and
the Waistcoat of the Louis
the Fourteenth style to
their Tweed Coats in two
methods. One.; of these is
the shape of a gentleman's
ordinary short jacket; the
other that of the regular
morning coat with side
body seams.
But, Gentlemen and La-
dies, these are not the only
novelties in the way of
attire provided for you at
a certain eminent Clothing
Establishment in a fashion-
able quarter of London.
There is also a Costume for the Moors.
The Paletot is long and close-fitting, with leather buttons. There
are Leggings to match. There is a hat, too, of the same cloth as the
Leggings and the Paletot. You can thus be equipped for the Moors,
if you wish to visit them, from head to foot. But though grouse-
shooting is over, which your Clothiers seem to have forgotten, no
doubt the Costume designed for the Moors would be equally suitable
to the Turnips or the Cover.
But even this, Gentlemen and Ladies, is not all that you are
offered by that extensive Clothing Firm.
Their new Hat for Costumes is the Jockey Cap. It is, they say, a
most stylish head-dress in cloth, and has the true jockey character-
istic ; the addition of a ribbon run in round the edge finishing with
a bow in front to draw the cap tightly round the head. Of course
Gentlemen might have the cap made for them so as to dispense with
this addition, which they might probably consider less becoming for
them than for Ladies.
" Now that Corduroys are so fashionable," the same Firm recom-
mend Ladies and Gentlemen to patronise their Corduroys, of which
they have a stock on view.
From the foregoing particulars, announced the other day in the
Morning Post, it would seem, Ladies—especially from the article
Corduroys—that the Bights of Women are progressing amongst the
Higher Orders.
Cause and Effect.
The policy of Beaconsfield—apart from party glosing—
May most fitly be described in a single word—imposing !
On England he imposes the cry the Jingo mass adore,
As upon Affghanistan he imposes an Ambassador.
But of either imposition John Bull may look for close sure,
That which all impositions is wont to dog—exposure.
la crosse re-christened.
Will the Indian Game be known in the Dominion in future as
Lorne-Tennis ?
like a dream,—who was she ? I never could quite make out. She
might have been a daughter-in-law—or a daughter, perhaps, They
called her Rose or Myrtle, or some such pretty name with a scent
of summer flowers in it. She was younger, sadder, more spiritual,
I think, than the other. A mystery hung about her—a recollection,
as it were, of sorrow and crime. Done, or suffered ? That was the
question that fascinated me. ...
1 felt that she did not belong to our world, but to some dim
universe of old fables and fluttering tapestries, where heroes agonise
and wives stab their husbands in the dark. I loved her—she was
to me the incarnation of a dream—The faded crewels that she was
always working into the hems and linings of our gowns were the
threads of Penelope's web; the scissors that hung at her chatelaine
were the shivering shears of Fate._ She lives in my mind side by
side with the "Wolf that ate Red Hiding Hood.
II.
Dm he belong to that strange world also ? I have sometimes
thought he did. He had a sleepy look, and a way of calling her
" Sister," that somehow linked them together in my mind. But I
never knew what was the exact relationship between them. . . .
He wore a brown velveteen coat, and looked in. I remember a
cup falling and a little start. R. played on—her cadences fell with
the broken china—the melody floated up among the roses—so did
the steam—it seemed one music, one love, one intensity. ... Is not
this life ? . . . And she sat calm and sweet, with the smile that
somehow made one feel a vague security. . . . He asked me to put
sugar in his tea, and I forgot to do it. . . .
We neither of us spoke—it was enough to be together, and to feel
our youth and the immense beauty pulsating in sunset clouds around
us. There was a glory in every pool—little boys bathed far out
upon the sands—brown cattle came lowing across the common.—
I stooped down and picked a buttercup—its yellow calyx seemed_ to
mirror our happiness. ... A bell rang, and I saw my queen coming
towards us, with the evening glory on her hair. . . .
" Is she not sweet and beautiful ?" I said, holding the buttercup
over my head, and turning to note its beauty against the quiver of
the sultry summer noon. "Is she not sweet and beautiful?" I
said again, for he too was dreaming, and in his sleepy way he had
missed my words.
He yawned slowly, and patted the brown cows, saying, with a
gentle sing-song, " Myrtle is very sweet and beautiful, and she is
my sister.—We are all beautiful here, and we think of nothing
else.—You will get used to it as you see more of us and come to
understand our ways. Will you come to luncheon ? "
" Do come ! " cooed my queen. And I followed her in, wondering
how long it would take me to get used to it. At any rate I was
sure that 1 liked it. . . . At home it was all bustle and confusion,
children tumbling down-stairs, and a red-faced maid-of-all-work. . . .
I already felt the poetry of having a butler and two footmen—I
thought it would be easier to be good here—it was like Sunday.
I told him so—He smiled kindly, and said the butler would take
care of me. How well I remember those days of cakes and ale in
the pretty house where it was always summer ! !! Do you not agree
with me, reader, that there are some places where it is always
summer, just as there are some people with whom it is always love ?
I know it was so at X-■; always summer and love and beauty;
and the tide coming up to make strange little adventures for us
among the creeks and landslips, and the sun setting with crimson
throbs, and shooting farewell floods upon the snow. . . .
How those voices used to come up to the window where I sat
dreaming and dallying! They walked up and down so late one
night that I grew nervous. At last she left him, and he stood there
alone.—I could not tear myself away—some vague instinct made me
forbode evil—I leaned out—Suddenly a sound broke the silence—
My heart stood still, but only for a second—in time I knew that
there was no danger. It was the bicycle with its wheels gliding
noiselessly across the terrace. . . .
How did he know that I was standing at Myrtle's window ? . . .
I had no right to be there ; it was only my feverish curiosity that
had brought me—only their voices that made it impossible for me to
go.—How did he know it ? . . . The more I think of it, the more
puzzled I get—It was hardly five minutes since I had left her
brother in the paddock—I had made an excuse to get away from
him, and he had.said good-bye—sadly—I felt it was cruel of me, but
to this day I cannot see how I could help it—Some vague instinct
told me the other was on the terrace. It was an opportunity not to
be missed.
He stopped under the window—the bicycle fell. I was afraid he
was hurt, but I did not scream, for fear of bringing Myrtle. For a
wonder 1 kept cool; and when, a few minutes later, he whispered,
|| All right!" I was able to answer, "Yes." Then he looked
Dearest! " I waved my hand—he was gone—But how did he know
that I should be there ? . . .
Next day I had a scene with Myrtle. . . . She had met him in the
morning, and I think he must have thoughtlessly told her about it,
for she seemed upset. She looked more than usually anxious, my
poor queen ! She had the expression in her eyes, that made me
think of Clytemnestra—the expression that I liked so much! At
those times I never could refuse her anything. There was some
mesmerism in her face, that compelled me to be open. I told her
just what had passed. She made me promise to tell it to no one
else. As she was leaving the room, she turned round, and said,
with a pretty laugh, '' There, be a good girl! Keep my secret, and
I will keep yours. You know if I were to tell him about it, he
would be angry." I had not thought of that myself—but I was
grateful to her for thinking of it. She was always considerate for
others. . . .
(To be concluded in our next.)
MASCULINE AND FEMININE FASHIONS-
Ladies and Gentlemen,—
The Chesterfield Coat
has been revived for
Ladies' wear. It is made
with or without a skirt of
the same material as its
own.
It has pockets in the
style of a gentleman's
coat.
The producers of the Ches-
terfield Coat have happily
adapted both the Coat and
the Waistcoat of the Louis
the Fourteenth style to
their Tweed Coats in two
methods. One.; of these is
the shape of a gentleman's
ordinary short jacket; the
other that of the regular
morning coat with side
body seams.
But, Gentlemen and La-
dies, these are not the only
novelties in the way of
attire provided for you at
a certain eminent Clothing
Establishment in a fashion-
able quarter of London.
There is also a Costume for the Moors.
The Paletot is long and close-fitting, with leather buttons. There
are Leggings to match. There is a hat, too, of the same cloth as the
Leggings and the Paletot. You can thus be equipped for the Moors,
if you wish to visit them, from head to foot. But though grouse-
shooting is over, which your Clothiers seem to have forgotten, no
doubt the Costume designed for the Moors would be equally suitable
to the Turnips or the Cover.
But even this, Gentlemen and Ladies, is not all that you are
offered by that extensive Clothing Firm.
Their new Hat for Costumes is the Jockey Cap. It is, they say, a
most stylish head-dress in cloth, and has the true jockey character-
istic ; the addition of a ribbon run in round the edge finishing with
a bow in front to draw the cap tightly round the head. Of course
Gentlemen might have the cap made for them so as to dispense with
this addition, which they might probably consider less becoming for
them than for Ladies.
" Now that Corduroys are so fashionable," the same Firm recom-
mend Ladies and Gentlemen to patronise their Corduroys, of which
they have a stock on view.
From the foregoing particulars, announced the other day in the
Morning Post, it would seem, Ladies—especially from the article
Corduroys—that the Bights of Women are progressing amongst the
Higher Orders.
Cause and Effect.
The policy of Beaconsfield—apart from party glosing—
May most fitly be described in a single word—imposing !
On England he imposes the cry the Jingo mass adore,
As upon Affghanistan he imposes an Ambassador.
But of either imposition John Bull may look for close sure,
That which all impositions is wont to dog—exposure.
la crosse re-christened.
Will the Indian Game be known in the Dominion in future as
Lorne-Tennis ?