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VIII
THAT OF THE TUCK-SHOP WOMAN

 
Of all the schools throughout the land
St. Vedast's is the oldest, and
All men are proud
(And justly proud)
Who claim St. Vedast's as their Al-
Ma mater. There I went a cal-
Low youth. Don't think I'm going to paint
The glories of this school – I ain't.
 
 
The Rev. Cecil Rowe, M.A.,
Was classics Master in my day,
A learned man
(A worthy man)
In fact you'd very rarely see
A much more clever man than he.
But if you think you'll hear a lot
About this person, – you will not.
 
 
The porter was a man named Clarke;
We boys considered it a lark
To play him tricks
(The usual tricks
Boys play at public schools like this),
And Clarke would sometimes take amiss
These tricks. But don't think I would go
And only sing of him. Oh, no!
 
 
This ditty, I would beg to state,
Professes likewise to relate
The latter words
(The solemn words)
Of her who kept the tuck-shop at
St. Vedast's. I'd inform you that
The porter was her only son
(The reason was – she had but one).
 
 
For many years the worthy soul
Had kept the shop – the well-loved goal
Of little boys
(And larger boys)
Who bought the tarts, and ginger pop
And other things sold at her shop —
But, feebler growing year by year,
She felt her end was drawing near.
 
 
She therefore bade her son attend,
That she might whisper, ere her end,
A startling tale
(A secret tale)
That on her happiness had preyed,
And heavy on her conscience weighed
For many a year. "Alas! my son,"
She sighed, "injustice has been done.
 
 
"Let not your bitter anger rise,
Nor gaze with sad reproachful eyes
On one who's been
(You know I've been)
For many years your mother, dear;
And though you think my story queer,
Believe – or I shall feel distressed —
I thought I acted for the best.
 
 
"When you were but a tiny boy
(Your mother's and your father's joy),
Good Mr. Rowe
(The Revd. Rowe)
Was but a little baby too,
Who very much resembled you,
And, being poorly off in purse,
I took this baby out to nurse.
 
 
"Alike in features and in size —
So like, indeed, the keenest eyes
Would find it hard
(Extremely hard)
To tell the t'other from the one – "
"Hold! though your tale is but begun,"
The porter cried, "a man may guess
The secret of your keen distress.
 
 
"You changed the babes at nurse, and I
(No wonder that you weep and sigh),
Tho' callèd Clarke
(School Porter Clarke),
Am really Mr. Rowe. I see.
And he, of course, poor man, is me,
While all the fortune he has known
Through these long years should be my own.
 
 
"Oh falsely, falsely, have you done
To call me all this time your son;
I've always felt
(Distinctly felt)
That I was born to better things
Than portering, and such-like, brings,
I'll hurry now, and tell poor Rowe
What, doubtless, he will feel a blow."
 
 
"Stay! stay!" the woman cried, "'tis true,
My poor ill-treated boy, that you
Have every right
(Undoubted right)
To feel aggrieved. I had the chance
Your future welfare to advance
By changing babes. I knew I'd rue it,
My poor boy – but —I didn't do it."
 

IX
THAT OF S. P. IDERS WEBBE, SOLICITOR

 
Young Mr. S. P. Iders Webbe,
Solicitor, of Clifford's Inn,
Sat working in his chambers, which
Were far removed from traffic's din.
To those in legal trouble he
Lent ready ear of sympathy —
And six-and-eightpence was his fee.
 
 
To widows and to orphans, too,
Young Mr. Webbe was very nice,
And turned none from his door away
Who came to seek for his advice:
To these, I humbly beg to state —
The sad and the disconsolate —
His fee was merely six-and-eight.
 
 
He'd heave a sympathetic sigh,
And squeeze each bankrupt client's hand
While listening to a tale of woe
Salt tears within his eyes would stand.
Naught, naught his sympathies could stem,
And he would only charge – ahem! —
A paltry six-and-eight to them.
 
 
This gentleman, as I observed,
Was calmly seated at his work,
When, from the waiting-room, a card
Was brought in by the junior clerk.
"Nathaniel Blobbs? Pray ask him to
Step in," said Webbe. "How do you do?
A very pleasant day to you."
 
 
"A pleasant day be hanged!" said Blobbs,
A wealthy man and very stout
(That he was boiling o'er with rage
There could not be the slightest doubt).
"I'm given, sir, to understand
You're suitor for my daughter's hand.
An explanation I demand!
 
 
"I know your lawyer's tricks, my man;
In courting of my daughter Jane —
Who's rather plain and not too young —
My money's what you seek to gain.
Confound you, sir!" the man did roar.
"My daughter Jane is no match for
A beggarly solicitor!"
 
 
At words like these most gentlemen
Would really have been somewhat riled;
But do not think that Mr. Webbe
Was angry. No; he merely smiled.
But, oh! my friends, the legal smile
Is not to trust. 'Tis full of guile.
(So smiles the hungry crocodile.)
 
 
"I see," Webbe most politely said,
"My worthy sir, your point of view.
You're wealthy; I am poor. Of course,
What I proposed would never do.
If only, now, I'd property,
And you were – well, as poor as me– "
"Pooh! that," cried Blobbs, "can never be."
 
 
"Think not?" said Webbe. "Well, p'r'aps you're right.
And so – there's nothing more to say.
You must be going? What! so soon?
I'm sorry, sir, you cannot stay!"
Blobbs went – and slammed the outer door.
Webbe calmly made the bill out for
The interview – a lengthy score.
 
 
He charged – at highest legal rate —
For every word he'd uttered; and
He even put down six-and-eight
"To asking for Miss Blobbs's hand";
Next, in the Court of Common Pleas
A "Breach of Promise" case, with ease,
He instituted – if you please.
 
 
He gained the day, because the maid
Was over age, the Judge averred,
And Blobbs was forced to "grin and pay,"
Although he vowed 'twas most absurd.
The "damages," of course, were slight;
But "legal costs" by no means light.
(Webbe shared in these as was his right.)
 
 
Outside the Court indignant Blobbs
Gave vent to some expressions which
Were libellous, and quickly Webbe
Was "down on him" for "using sich."
Once more the day was Webbe's, and he,
By posing as a damagee,
Obtained a thousand pounds, you see.
 
 
With this round sum he then contrived
To buy a vacant small estate
Adjoining Blobbs, who went and did
Something illegal with a gate.
Webbe "had him up" for that, of course;
Then something else (about a horse),
And later on a water-course.
 
 
He sued for this, he sued for that,
Till action upon action lay,
And in the Royal Courts of Law
"Webbe versus Blobbs" came on each day.
"Law costs" and big "retaining fees,"
"Mulcted in fines" – such things as these
Made Blobbs feel very ill at ease.
 
 
As Webbe grew rich, so he grew poor,
Till finally he said: "Hang pride!
I'll let this fellow, if he must,
Have Jane, my daughter, for his bride."
He went once more to Clifford's Inn.
Webbe welcomed him with genial grin:
"My very dear sir, pray step in."
 
 
"Look here!" cried Blobbs. "I'll fight no more!
You lawyer fellows, on my life,
Will have your way. I must give in.
My daughter Jane shall be your wife!"
"Dear me! this is unfortunate,"
Said Webbe. "I much regret to state
Your condescension comes too late.
 
 
"For, sir, I marry this day week
(Being a man of property)
The young and lovely daughter of
Sir Simon Upperten, M.P."
Then, in a light and airy way:
"I think there's nothing more to say.
Pray, mind the bottom step. Good day!"
 

X
THAT OF MONSIEUR ALPHONSE VERT

 
Your Mistair Rudyar' Kipling say
Ze cricquette man is "flannel fool."
Ah! oui! Très bon! I say so too,
Since Mastair Jack, enfant at school,
He show me how to play ze same.
I like it not – ze cricquette game.
 
 
My name is Monsieur Alphonse Vert
(You call him in ze English "Green");
I go to learn ze English tongue,
And lodge myself at Ealing Dean
In family of Mistair Brown,
Who has affaire each day "in town."
 
 
Miss Angelina Brown she is
Très charmante– what you call "so pretty";
I walk and talk wiz her sometimes
When Mr. Brown go to ze City;
I fall in love (pardon zese tears)
All over head, all over ears.
 
 
I buy her books, and flowers (bouquet),
And tickets for la matinée,
And to ze cricquette match we go,
Hélas! upon one Saturday.
To me she speak zere not at all.
But watch ze men, and watch ze ball.
 
 
Ze cricquette men zey run, zey bat,
Zey throw ze ball, zey catch, zey shout;
And Angelina clap her hands.
Vot for, I know not, all about,
And in myself I say "Ah! oui!
I too a cricquette man shall be."
 
 
To Angelina's brother Jack
(His name is also Mastair Brown)
I say, "Come, teach me cricquette match,
And I will give you half-a-crown."
Jack say, "My eye!" (in French mes yeux)¹
"Oh! what a treat!" (in French c'est beau).
 
 
After, to Ealing Common we
Go out, with "wicquette" and with "ball,"
And what Jack calls a "cricquette-bat."
(Zese tings I do not know at all;
But Angelina I would catch,
So "Allons! Vive la cricquette match!")
 
 
I hold ze "bat," Jack hold ze "ball."
"Now zen! Look out!" I hear him cry.
I drop ze "bat," I look about;
Ze ball – he hit me in ze eye."
I cry, "Parbleu!" Ze stars I see.
I think it is "all up" wiz me.
 
 
I try again. Ze "ball" is hard.
I catch him two times – on ze nose.
I run, I fall, I hurt my arm,
I spoil my new white flannel clothes,
In every part I'm bruised and sore,
So cricquette match I play no more.
 
 
I change my clothes, I patch my eye,
I tie my nose up in a sling,
And to Miss Angelina Brown
Myself and all my woes I bring.
"Ah, see," I cry, "how love can make
Alphonse a hero for thy sake."
 
 
But Angelina laugh and laugh,
And say, "I know it isn't right
To laugh; but you must please forgive
Me. You look such a fright!"
And next day Jack say, "I say, Bones,
My sister's going to marry Jones."
 

XI
THAT OF LORD WILLIAM OF PURLEIGH

 
Lord William of Purleigh retired for the night
With a mind full of worry and trouble,
Which was caused by an income uncommonly slight,
And expenses uncommonly double.
Now the same sort of thing often happens, to me —
And perhaps to yourself – for most singularlee
One's accounts – if one keeps 'em – will never come right,
If, of "moneys received," one spends double.
 
 
His lordship had gone rather early to bed,
And for several hours had been sleeping,
When he suddenly woke – and the hair on his head
Slowly rose – he could hear someone creeping
About in his room, in the dead of the night,
With a lantern, which showed but a glimmer of light,
And his impulse, at first, was to cover his head
When he heard that there burglar a-creeping.
 
 
But presently thinking "Poor fellow, there's naught
In the house worth a burglar a-taking,
And, being a kind-hearted lord, p'r'aps I ought,
To explain the mistake he's a-making."
Lord William, then still in his woolly night-cap
(For appearances noblemen don't care a rap),
His second-best dressing-gown hastily sought,
And got up without any noise making.
 
 
"I'm exceedingly sorry," his lordship began,
"But your visit, I fear, will be fruitless.
I possess neither money, nor jewels, my man,
So your burglaring here will be bootless.
The burglar was startled, but kept a cool head,
And bowed, as his lordship, continuing, said:
"Excuse me a moment. I'll find if I can
My warm slippers, for I too am bootless."
 
 
This pleasantry put them both quite at their ease;
They discoursed of De Wet, and of Tupper.
Then the household his lordship aroused, if you please,
And invited the burglar to supper.
The burglar told tales of his hardly-won wealth,
And each drank to the other one's jolly good health.
There's a charm about informal parties like these,
And it was a most excellent supper.
 
 
Then the lord told the burglar how poor he'd become,
And of all which occasioned his lordship distress;
And the burglar – who wasn't hard-hearted like some —
His sympathy ventured thereat to express:
"I've some thoughts in my mind, if I might be so bold
As to mention them, but – no – they mustn't be told.
They are hopes which, perhaps, I might talk of to some,
But which to a lord – no, I dare not express."
 
 
"Pooh! Nonsense!" his lordship cried, "Out with it, man!
What is it, my friend, that you wish to suggest?
Rely upon me. I will do what I can.
Come! Let us see what's to be done for the best."
"I've a daughter," the burglar remarked with a sigh.
"The apple is she, so to speak, of my eye,
And she wishes to marry a lord, if she can —
And of all that I know – why, your lordship's the best.
 
 
"I am wealthy," the burglar continued, "you see,
And her fortune will really be ample:
I have given her every advantage, and she
Is a person quite up to your sample."
Lord William, at first, was inclined to look glum,
But, on thinking it over, remarked: "I will come
In the morning, to-morrow, the lady to see
If indeed she is up to the sample."
 
 
On the morrow he called, and the lady he saw,
And he found her both charming and witty;
So he married her, though for a father-in-law
He'd a burglar, which p'r'aps was a pity.
However, she made him an excellent wife,
And the burglar he settled a fortune for life
On the pair. What an excellent father-in-law!
On the whole, p'r'aps, it wasn't a pity.
 

XII
THAT OF PASHA ABDULLA BEY

 
Abdulla Bey – a Pasha – had
A turn for joy and merriment:
You never caught him looking sad,
Nor glowering in discontent.
 
 
His normal attitude was one
Of calm, serene placidity;
His nature gay, and full of fun,
And free from all acidity.
 
 
A trifling instance I'll relate
Of Pasha Bey's urbanity,
The which will clearly indicate
His marvellous humanity.
 
 
He had a dozen wives or so
(In him no immorality;
For Eastern custom, as you know,
Permits, of wives, plurality).
 
 
Yes; quite a dozen wives – or more —
Abdulla had, and for a while
No sound was heard of strife or war
Within Abdulla's domicile.
 
 
But, oh! how rare it is to find
A dozen ladies who'll consent
To think as with a single mind,
And live together in content.
 
 
Abdulla's wives – altho', no doubt,
If taken individually,
Would never think of falling out, —
Collectively, could not agree.
 
 
At first, in quite a playful way,
They quarrelled – rather prettily;
Then cutting things contrived to say
About each other wittily;
 
 
Then petty jealousies and sneers
Began, – just feeble flickerings —
Which grew, alas! to bitter tears,
And fierce domestic bickerings.
 
 
You never had a dozen wives —
Of course not – so you cannot know
The grave discomfort in their lives
These Pashas sometimes undergo.
 
 
Abdulla Bey, however, he
Was not the one to be dismayed,
And doubtless you'll astounded be
To hear what wisdom he displayed.
 
 
He did not – as some would have done —
Seek angry ladies to coerce;
He did not use to any one
Expressions impolite – or worse.
 
 
No, what he did was simply this:
He stood those ladies in a row,
And said, "My dears, don't take amiss
What I'm about to say, you know.
 
 
"I find you cannot, like the birds,
Within your little nest agree,
So I'll unfold, in briefest words,
A plan which has occurred to me.
 
 
"These quarrellings, these manners lax,
In comfort means a loss for us,
So I must tie you up in sacks
And throw you in the Bosphorus."
 
 
He tied them up; he threw them in;
Then Pasha Bey, I beg to state,
Did not seek sympathy to win
By posing as disconsolate.
 
 
He mourned a week; and then, they say
(A Pasha is, of course, a catch),
Our friend, the good Abdulla Bey,
Got married to another batch.