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DOCTOR BRIGHTON

"One of the best physicians our city ever knew is kind, cheerful, merry, Doctor Brighton." – The Newcomes.

Scene. – King's Road, Brighton

The Colonel. Beryl (His Niece)

The Colonel

 
THOUGH long it is since Titmarsh wrote;
His good advice we still remember,
When bad catarrh and rugged throat
Are rife in town in grey November!
So, if your temper's short or bad,
Or of engagements you are full, man;
Or if you're feeling bored or sad,
Make haste and get aboard the Pullman
And throw all physic to the dogs —
If life's sad burden you would lighten —
Run quick away from London fogs
And call in cheerful Doctor Brighton!
 

Beryl

 
Good Doctor Brighton, a mighty magician is,
See him at once, howe'er bad you may be!
Take his advice – there no better physician is —
Naught is his physic but Sunshine and Sea!
Come down at once then! Leave London in hazy time,
Leave it enshrouded in yellow and brown!
Come here and revel in exquisite lazy time,
Flee from the turmoil and taint of the town!
Blue is the sky and the sunshine is glorious,
Charged is the air with delicious ozone:
Gay is the cliff and most gentle is Boreas,
Come down at once and recover your "tone!"
 

The Colonel

 
Though many years have passed away,
And countless cares to not a few come,
The place is bright as in the day
Of Ethel, Clive, and Colonel Newcome:
The East Street shops are just as gay,
The turtle still as good at Mutton's;
The buns at Streeter's – so they say —
As well-beloved by tiny gluttons!
You still can gallop o'er the Down,
Or swim at Brill's just like a Triton.
A smile will supersede your frown
When you consult kind Doctor Brighton!
 

Beryl

 
Here is Mama looking anxious and serious:
List to the patter of smartly shod feet!
Dainty young damsels, whose faces ne'er weary us,
Tailor-made dresses delightfully neat!
Angular ladies in gloomy æsthetic coats,
Maudle and dawdle the afternoon through;
Graceful girlettes in the shortest of petticoats,
Flutter their frills as they walk two-and-two.
Fur-coated beauties in carriages roll about,
Jaded M.P.'s try to trot away cares,
Dandies and poets and loungers here stroll about,
Dignified dowagers bask in Bath-chairs!
 

The Colonel

 
Though cynics swear all pleasures fade,
And cry, O tempora mutantur!
The bonny laughing Light Brigade,
Still on the King's Road gaily canter!
And yet upon the Lawns and Pier,
Do lots of pleasant folk commingle:
While still the old, old song we hear —
The lullaby of surf on shingle!
Then let's remain to laugh and laze,
Where light and air enjoyment heighten —
Too short the hours, too few the days,
We pass with merry Doctor Brighton!
 

LIZZIE

PAINTED BY LESLIE

 
O, WHO can paint the picture of my pet?
As 'mid the grey-green hay she childlike kneels,
Who shows a dainty slipper, then conceals
'Neath tangled grass its celadon rosette.
A soft white robe, a broidered chemisette
Scarce veils her rounded bosom, as it steals
A subtle charm it only half reveals —
As sweet and modest as the violet!
 
 
A gipsy hat casts shadows, pearly grey,
Across the golden sunshine of her smile.
Her glance e'en cynics dare not disobey,
Her dimples even iron hearts beguile —
A dainty despot on a throne of hay,
Who conquers all by magic girlish wile!
 

A MARLOW MADRIGAL

 
O, BISHAM BANKS are fresh and fair,
And Quarry Woods are green,
And pure and sparkling is the air,
Enchanting is the scene!
I love the music of the weir,
As swift the stream runs down,
For, O, the water's deep and clear
That flows by Marlow town!
 
 
When London's getting hot and dry,
And half the Season's done,
To Marlow you should quickly fly,
And bask there in the sun.
There pleasant quarters you may find —
The "Angler" or the "Crown"
Will suit you well, if you're inclined
To stay in Marlow town.
 
 
I paddle up to Harleyford,
And sometimes I incline
To cushions take with lunch aboard,
And play with rod and line.
For in a punt I love to laze,
And let my face get brown;
And dream away the sunny days
By dear old Marlow town!
 
 
I go to luncheon at the Lawn,
I muse, I sketch, I rhyme;
I headers take at early dawn,
I list to All Saints' chime.
And in the River, flashing bright,
Dull Care I strive to drown —
And get a famous appetite
At pleasant Marlow town!
 
 
So when, no longer, London life
You feel you can endure;
Just quit its noise, its whirl, its strife,
And try the "Marlow-cure"!
You'll smooth the wrinkles on your brow
And scare away each frown —
Feel young again once more, I vow,
At quaint old Marlow town!
 
 
Here Shelley dreamed and thought and wrote,
And wandered o'er the leas;
And sung and drifted in his boat
Beneath the Bisham trees.
So let me sing, although I'm no
Great poet of renown —
Of hours that much too quickly go,
At good old Marlow town!
 

IN ROTTEN ROW

 
A WAY with all sorrow, away with all gloom,
Now may is in blossom, and lilac in bloom;
The golden laburnum in gardens is gay,
The windows are bright with their floral display;
The air is delightful, and warm is the sun,
The chesnuts are snowy, the Derby is won.
Piccadilly is pleasant from daylight to dark,
And Bond Street is crowded, and gay is the Park —
So now is the time when you all ought to go,
And sit on a Chair 'neath the trees in the Row!
 
 
For only a penny I sit in the shade,
And gaze with delight on the gay cavalcade!
While countless romances I read if I please,
In the people I see from my Chair 'neath the trees.
'Tis better by far than an Opera-stall,
A crowded At-home or a smart fancy ball;
Or gazing at pictures, or playing at pool,
Or playing the banjo, or playing the fool —
When soft summer breezes from Kensington blow,
'Tis pleasant to sit on a Chair in the Row!
 
 
What studies of man and of woman and horse
Here pass up and down on the tan-trodden course!
The Earl and the Duke and the Doctor are there,
The author, the actor, the great millionaire;
The first-season beauties whose roses are red,
The third-season beauties whose roses have fled!
M.P.'s, upon cobs, chatting pleasantly there,
And pets, upon ponies, with long sunny hair —
I note them all down, as they pass to and fro,
And muse in my Chair 'neath the trees in the Row!
 
 
What countless fair pictures around may be seen,
How colours flash bright on their background of green!
A bouquet of figure, of fashion, of face,
And dainty devices in linen and lace!
The triumphs of Worth and of Madame Elise
You see as you wonder and moon 'neath the trees.
What sweet scraps of scandal afloat in the air,
And gossip you hear sitting silently there! —
But folks are going lunchwards; I'll join them, and so
I ponder no more in my Chair in the Row!
 

A PORTRAIT

 
IN sunny girlhood's vernal life
She caused no small sensation;
But now the modest English wife
To others leaves flirtation.
She's young still, lovely, debonair,
Although sometimes her features
Are clouded by a thought of care
For those two tiny creatures.
 
 
Each tiny, toddling, mottled mite
Asserts with voice emphatic,
In lisping accents, "Mite is right" —
Their rule is autocratic:
The song becomes, that charmed mankind,
Their musical narcotic,
And baby lips, than Love, she'll find,
Are even more despotic!
 
 
Soft lullaby, when singing there,
And castles ever building —
Their destiny she'll carve in air,
Bright with maternal gilding:
Young Guy, a clever advocate —
So eloquent and able!
A powdered wig upon his pate,
A coronet for Mabel!
 

SYMPHONIES IN FUR.
COMPOSED DURING THE FROST

 
In these rough rhymes I string together
Portraits of each pretty face —
Which, in this rough and rimy weather,
Surely can't be out of place.
 

LADY SEALSKIN

 
A DAINTY young damsel is Pearl,
Beclad in the softest of sealskin:
I'm told her papa is an Earl; —
Just watch her most gracefully twirl,
A lovely and lissom young girl,
Whose jersey is tight as an eelskin;
A dainty young damsel is Pearl,
Beclad in the softest of sealskin.
 

MISS OTTER

 
You never, I'm certain, saw such
A lithe little learner in otter!
She's ready to fall at a touch;
Behold how she's anxious to clutch
Her ebony-stick with a crutch
By which she's enabled to totter.
You never, I'm certain, saw such
A lithe little learner in otter.
 

PRINCESS ERMINE

 
Pray, who is the pretty Princess,
Who is robed in the royalest ermine?
And exquisite velveteen dress,
With bangles that ring more or less;
I'm sure you're unable to guess,
And 'tis hardly for me to determine!
Pray, who is this pretty Princess,
Who is robed in the royalest ermine?
 

MISS SILVER-GREY RABBIT

 
Here comes that big baby called Bee,
Who is clad in the coat of a bunny!
A romping young rebel is she —
Her skirts only reach to her knee,
Her life's full of mischief and glee,
And a "spill" she thinks screamingly funny.
Here comes that big baby called Bee,
Who is clad in the coat of a bunny!
 

THE HON. MABEL SABLE

 
O, had I ten thousand a year
I'd marry Miss Mabel in sable!
A dainty, divine little dear,
She's out of my reach though she's near —
I'd woo her to-day without fear,
And wed her at once, were I able!
O, had I ten thousand a year
I'd marry Miss Mabel in sable!
 

MISS BEARSKIN

 
And this is our sweet little Flo,
A bonny young beauty in bearskin!
How glibly she'll glide to and fro,
And sweet sunny glances bestow,
While a lovely carnational glow
Just flushes her exquisite fair skin.
And this is our sweet little Flo,
A bonny young beauty in bearskin!
 

DRIFTING DOWN

 
DRIFTING down in the grey-green twilight,
O, the scent of the new-mown hay!
The oars drip in the mystic shy light,
O, the charm of the dying day!
While fading flecks of bright opalescence
But faintly dapple a saffron sky,
The stream flows on with superb quiescence,
The breeze is hushed to the softest sigh.
Drifting down in the sweet still weather,
O, the fragrance of fair July!
Love, my Love, when we drift together,
O, how fleetly the moments fly!
 
 
Drifting down on the dear old River,
O, the music that interweaves!
The ripples run and the sedges shiver,
O, the song of the lazy leaves!
And far-off sounds – for the night so clear is —
Awake the echoes of bygone times;
The muffled roar of the distant weir is
Cheered by the clang of the Marlow chimes.
Drifting down in the cloudless weather,
O, how short is the summer day!
Love, my Love, when we drift together,
O, how quickly we drift away!
 
 
Drifting down as the night advances,
O, the calm of the starlit skies!
Eyelids droop o'er the half-shy glances,
O, the light in those blue-grey eyes!
A winsome maiden is sweetly singing
A dreamy song in a minor key;
Her clear low voice and its tones are bringing
A mingled melody back to me.
Drifting down in the clear calm weather,
O, how sweet is the maiden's song!
Love, my Love, when we drift together,
O, how quickly we drift along!
 

TOUJOURS TENNIS

BY A WILFUL LAWNTENNISONIENNE

 
O BRING me, O bring me, my stout mackintosh,
I care not a feather for slime or for slosh!
The sky it is leaden, the lawn sopping wet,
And sodden the balls are, and slack is the net!
I've done it before and I'll do it again,
I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the rain!
 
 
I'll don my sou'-wester, then what do I care
If weather be foul or if weather be fair?
I'll put on my furs, and I'll shorten my clothes,
I'll wear my galoshes and thick woollen hose:
I care not a pin for the storm or the flood,
I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the mud!
 
 
I laugh as the hailstones come pattering down,
I'm spattered all over from sole unto crown!
In thunder and lightning I'll play all the same —
I won't be debarred from my favourite game!
Though weak-hearted lasses may quiver and quail,
I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the hail!
 
 
In summer 'tis pleasant, but you ought to know
'Tis capital fun in the winter also:
When nets are all frozen and balls can't rebound,
When chilly the air is and snow's on the ground!
Though lazy folks shiver, and say 'tis "no go,"
I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the snow!
 
 
What pleasure can equal, what exercise vies
This winter Lawn-Tennis, with snow in your eyes?
You trip and you tumble, you glance and you glide,
You totter and stumble, you slip and you slide!
With two ancient racquets strapped fast to my feet,
I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of the sleet!
 
 
In autumn, as well as in summer or spring,
In praise of Lawn-Tennis I heartily sing!
Though good at each season, and better each time,
I'm certain in winter the game's in its prime!
You doubt it? No matter! Whate'er may befall,
I'll play at Lawn-Tennis in spite of you all!
 

TARPAULINE

A SKETCH AT RYDE

 
A PRETTY picture is it not,
Beneath the awning of the yacht?
A beauty of Sixteen,
She wears a trim tarpaulin hat,
So now you know the reason that
I call her Tarpauline.
 
 
A taut serge dress of Navy blue,
A boatswain's silver whistle, too,
She wears when she's afloat;
An open collar, and I wot,
A veritable sailor's knot
Around her pretty throat.
 
 
She has a glance that pleads and kills;
And 'mid her shy and snowy frills
A little foot appears;
She has the softest sunny locks,
The compass she knows how to box,
And, when it's needful – ears!
 
 
The smartest little sailor-girl,
Who'll steer or "bear a hand" or furl,
And I am told she oft
Quite longs to reef her petticoats,
And gleefully to "girl the boats,"
Or glibly go aloft!
 
 
But now how lazily she lies!
And droops those tender trustful eyes
Unutterably sweet!
While snugly 'neath the bulwark curled,
Forgetting all about the world,
The World is at her feet!
 
 
With tiny, dimpled, sunburnt hand,
She pats the solemn Newfoundland
Who crouches at her side.
She's thinking – not of me nor you,
When smiling as she listens to
The lapping of the tide.
 
 
O, were I pressed, aboard that ship,
How joyfully I'd take a trip,
For change of air and scene!
I'd soon pack up a carpet-bag,
And gladly sail beneath the flag,
Of bonny Tarpauline!
 

THE KITTEN

 
A SWEET, short-skirted, pouting pet,
A winsome, laughing, glad, girlette;
She's ten-and-thoughtless, and as yet,
By falsity unsmitten!
A merry young misogynist,
Few boyish games can she resist —
The Kitten!
 
 
She hates a doll and girlish toys,
She's fond of whips, and dogs, and boys,
For, truth to tell, she finds no joys
In crewel-work or tatting:
But see how smiling is her face,
Indeed, a pretty gleeful Grace —
When batting!
 
 
She bowls with marvellous success,
And keeps her wicket, I confess —
Despite her graceful girlish dress —
As well as any Briton!
She's saucy, silly, and self-willed,
The smartest longstop ever frilled —
The Kitten!
 
 
She's erudite in "wides" and "byes,"
And I will venture to surmise,
She'll vanquish any boy her size
At games of single-wicket!
And yet, no doubt, she's good as gold,
For I'll go bail she's only bold —
At cricket!
 
 
But like her namesake, clad in fur,
No mischief comes amiss to her;
To me it seems it should occur,
To leave her faults unwritten.
She'll make a score, I'm sure of that,
And loves to carry out her bat —
The Kitten!
 

Tunbridge Wells, August.

IN THE TEMPLE

 
The danger that lurks in Chrysanthemum Shows,
You'll see in this letter from Milly to Rose!
 

 
DEAR ROSE,
I never shall forget —
That is, I always shall remember —
The very brightest day, my pet,
We had throughout this dull November!
I went last Monday, you must know,
With Tina, Mrs. S., and Clarry,
To see the Temple flower-show,
And, best of all, to lunch with Harry!
 
 
We saw the gardens – 'twould be sport
To make the Benchers play lawn-tennis —
And chambers in a dingy court
Where Fanny Bolton nursed Pendennis:
The rooms where Goldsmith lived and died,
The sycamore where Johnson prated;
The house where Pip did once reside,
The Fountain where sweet Ruth Pinch waited.
 
 
We grasped a massive balustrade —
The date, they said, was Sixteen Thirty —
The way was dark, and I'm afraid
We found the staircase rather dirty.
Those grim old stairs to Harry's Den —
We clomb them gaily, nothing daunted —
They still by Warrington and Pen,
And other pleasant ghosts are haunted!
 
 
Ah, what a spot, my dearest Rose,
To muse upon this queer old Den is!
To catalogue its curios
I'm sure unable quite my pen is!
But from its panes we gaze upon
The misty midday sun a-quiver;
The red-sailed barges drifting on,
The sparkle of the dear old River!
 
 
Then mingling sweetly one perceives —
'Mid laughter light and girlish gabble —
The sighing of the autumn leaves,
And singing of the Fountain's babble!
How quick my thoughts drift back again
To those bright happy days at Hurley —
A pleasure strongly dashed with pain —
(O, Harry's locks are brown and curly!)
 
 
But, Rose, the luncheon! It was grand —
The oak you know, my love, was sported —
And all the speeches, understand,
Were much too good to be reported.
There's Clarry and big Charlie Clough —
It is a case! I think they'll marry —
I wonder who is good enough
For handsome, grey-eyed, laughing Harry?
 
 
It soon grew dark, but I could see
That clearly no one did desire light;
For Tina and young Freddy B.
Were spooning by the fitful firelight.
We stayed till late, for Mrs. S.
The most enduring chaperone is.
And Harry sang! I must confess
His voice the richest baritone is.
 
 
Ah, how the moments quickly flit
In song and talk and playful banter!
The motto on the sundial writ
Is Pereunt et imputantur.
I'm rather sad! Ah, what's the use?
I know you'll think I'm very silly;
Although I am a little goose,
I always am, your loving Milly.
 

AN UNFINISHED SKETCH

A SYMPHONY IN WHITE

 
Too fair for prose, too sweet for rhyme,
A laughing lass beneath the lime!
 

 
ONE sunny day in glorious July
I lazed upon the verdant tennis lawn!
And smoking there an idle cigarette
I watched a maid who gazed upon the game,
Clad in a simple snowy cambric frock,
And all the budding beauty of Sixteen!
And as she held her racquet banjo-wise,
While dreamily she trifled with its strings,
I sketched the merry maiden as she stood,
And sang a lazy lay beneath the lime.
 
 
An impudent down-tilted sailor hat —
Begirt with sheeny ribbon lily white —
That throws in shade a pair of pure grey eyes —
Dark-lashed, delightful, luminous, and sweet —
But lets the sunshine kiss her ripe red lips,
And mocking the carnation of her cheek,
It plays about her pretty rounded chin,
And glints amid her straying sunny curls.
 
 
A white, white dress that artlessly reveals —
So exquisite its fashion and its fit —
The pouting beauty of her fair young form;
In all its dainty, dimpled girliness!
From 'neath a silken girdle at her waist
The countless gathers radiate and fall,
And give a hint of undulating grace,
That closely clinging cambric strives to mock.
Such is her choice costume so fresh and crisp;
So recently assumed, it scarce has gained
The pretty pucker and the nameless charm,
It borrows from the wearer's changeful curves;
While warm white lights start forth in bold relief,
Contrasting with the shadows pearly grey,
About her slender figure, pliant pleats
Now slyly smile and play at hide-and-seek:
And, in transparent shadow, come and go,
Shy hints of lace and subtle broderie!
 
 
Observe – the filmy ruff about her throat,
The pretty ruffles at her slender wrists,
The shapely beauty of her small brown hands,
That harp upon the rigid racquet strings.
Note well the smart coquettish tennis shoon,
The shimmer of her silken, sable hose,
The while her tiny feet beat faultless time,
And flash and glitter 'neath her petticoat!
 
 
And then – Ah, me! a cloud is o'er the sun,
The breeze is cold, and life has lost its charm;
The song has ceased – the maid has gone and left
The Sketch unfinished, and the Sketcher sad!