OUR ROVING CORRESPONDENT.
No. I.
“My Dear Mr. Punch,
“When my laundress, Mrs. Kinahan, presented herself at my chambers on the 24th of last month, while I was discussing my breakfast, to inquire whether I intended going ‘hout of Town, please Sir, this Christmas,’ I was happy to answer that worthy woman in the affirmative. Christmas Day in chambers may be likened to an exasperated bull in a narrow lane – I mean, that you pass both with a certain feeling of discomfort, and therefore when that accomplished whip, Mr. Cabman, Seven-hundred-and-two, drove me away towards London Bridge Station in his patent chariot, I cheerfully resigned myself to fate, nor regretted that I had left behind me a key which would give Mrs. K. free access to my Cognac. It is true that the bottle which I had opened the night before my departure, only contained three teaspoonfuls on my return, but, after all, what is a pint or so of pale brandy compared with the comfort of a fellow-creature? If man is but moral, sure laundresses are not immaculate. Christmas, as the philosopher has observed (and my Tailor inclines to the same opinion), Christmas comes but once a year. Let us hope the old lady enjoyed her grog, and forgot her cares and her chilblains and dust-pan under its genial influence.
“Arriving at the terminus, after stumbling over hampers, knocking my skins against oyster-barrels, and getting entangled in groves of mistletoe, I managed to take my seat in the train. A young gentleman with a military deportment and unexceptionable whiskers entered the carriage soon after, who from the delicate hue of his gloves, the cursory – not to say maledictory – observations which fell from him concerning “The Service” and his contempt for the Volunteers Rifle movement, I rightly judged had but lately entered his profession. It soon appeared that he was also bound for Hollygate, where I was going, and indeed it was my lot subsequently to meet the youthful warrior at dinner, where he appeared in great state, did ample justice to our host’s claret, and kindly entertained us with some choice anecdotes – doubtless gleaned at his mess, and chiefly remarkable for their antiquity.
“Hollygate is a charming village on the banks of the Ripplemere. My uncle’s cottage, where I had been invited, stands in about a dozen acres of land, about a mile from the Station. It is not a large house, but is noted for containing three of the prettiest girls in the neighbourhood and a cellar of excellent wine. Their ages vary from seventeen to three-and-twenty – the girls I mean – the wine dates from a more remote period.
“Don’t you think, under the circumstances, that I was justified in ‘running down’ there for a week?
“My cousins, though I say it, are moreover, remarkably agreeable ‘parties,’ and but for an unfortunate prejudice concerning the subject of affinity, I am by no means sure that I should not – however, I won’t enter on that subject now. These three young ladies differ somewhat, as sisters generally do, in character. Laura, the youngest, confesses to a weakness for the Army. The sight of a red coat or the jingle of spurs will suffice to set the poor child’s heart in a flutter, and a partner clad in those habiliments is sure of her hand in a ball-room, though the first is confessedly an awkward garment to waltz in, and the latter invariably tear holes in her dress.
“Agnes, on the other hand, inclines with more favour towards the clerical profession. Now, Ecclesiastical sentiment mat be shown in various ways, and there is as much fashion in its manifestation as there is in the cut of Mr. Buckmaster’s coats, or in the shape of my lady’s bonnet. You, my dear Punch, will remember, when Evangelical principles were in vogue, that if a young lady wished to show her respect for a pet parson, she would purchase a yard of Bishop’s lawn, and forthwith make him a set of ‘bands.’ Occasionally slippers were worked by the faithful. Sometimes his Reverence received a silver tea-pot.
“Times are altered now. Bands are no longer orthodox, copes are coming in. Slippers have given place to ‘M.B.waistcoats.” Tea-pots are out of date.
“Our fair devotees now employ their leisure hours in working altar-cloths or copying texts, so beautifully illuminated that you can hardly read them. Miss Agnes, who is skilled in the latter accomplishment, employs my ultramarine and rose madder with great effect on vellum, and, as she never uses more than nine cakes of colour per week, I am delighted to direct her efforts. ‘Do, my dear Jack,’ cried the enthusiastic girl one morning, ‘Do please make me a design for an antependium. Our Curate wants me to embroider one for —’
“’What on earth is an antependium?’ said I, snatching up Mr. Riddles‘ famous dictionary.
“’You won’t find it there,’ said Lieutenant Wagsby, with a grin. ‘In plain English it’s a hang-before; and I suppose, Mr. Easel, haw, haw! you’ll see the reverend gentleman hanged before you do it!”
“Without paying any attention to Wagsby’s coarse and rather flat joke, I set to work, as soon as I understood what was wanted, and produced a sketch for the article, which I am proud to say gave satisfaction, not only to Miss Agnes, but to the Curate himself (the Rev. Minton Tyler), who being remarkable for his medieval tendencies, is an excellent judge in such matters. He has made heel-ball rubbings of every ‘brass’ in the United Kingdom, and wears a stripe down his trousers as an emblem, he says, of the Church militant.
“Rose, who is the pet of the family, laughs at both her sisters, and, to do her justice, confines her smiles to neither red nor black coats. Why should she? We all admire her by turns, and, in due rotation, she jilts every one of us. She will talk ‘pipeclay’ to Wagsby, discuss field matters with the Squire, and ‘high art’ with your humble servant. It was but the other morning I caught her ogling the Curate, and begging him to buy her a rosary. A rosary, indeed! If he had been an Archbishop, and she had asked him for York Minster, I don’t think he could have refused her. She is irresistible. Just as certain great generals arise only to triumph and come off victorious in every engagement, so some women are born, I think, to conquer and carry captive before them all whom they encounter. With what ease they begin the assault, and how perfect are the tactics of coquetry! A judicious sigh, a well-timed glance, a lock of bair escaping, or a pretty foot displayed, may throw some of the bravest of us off our guard, and make us prisoners before we have time to think about it, or cry for quarter. A few members of this fair Rifle Corps are always practising, and care little whom they wound so long as their shots take effect. Who can say he is proof against such warfare? To-day a valiant Ensign falls a victim, to-morrow an honest tar. It may be young Daubney in his studio, or Mr. Parson in canonicals. It is the great heir going out to shoot, or poor John coming in with the tea-tray. No matter – a look – a word – a laugh has done the mischief, and down we all go, priest, soldier, painter, plump upon our knees, and become her slaves for life. No – not for life. There comes a time when the most skilful manoeuvring will not avail, and all the charming strategy of our generalissima is lost upon us. Wit, beauty, pride are fair burnished weapons, which may rust with age, and cannot last for ever. Beware, ye flirts, in time lest —
“’Pray, Mr. Easel, is that a sermon you are composing?’ asked Miss Rose, who had been watching my grave face as I wrote.
“’Yes, my dear,’ I said (for in truth it is tolerably prosy).
“’I hope you’ll get it printed, Sir, that we may all profit by it,’ said she, dropping me a saucy curtsey.
“’That,’ said I, ‘will depend on Mr. Punch.’
“Whose faithful servant subscribes himself,
“Jack Easel.”
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