Part 6

It was on a long bright sunny day They sat on a green knoll side by side, But neither just then had much to say; Their hearts were so full that they only tried To do anything foolish, just to hide What both of them felt, but what Molly denied. They plucked the speckled daisies that grew Close by their arms,--then tore them too; And the bright little leaves that they broke from the stalk They threw at each other for want of talk; While the heart-lit look and the sunny smile Reflected pure souls without art or guile, And every time Molly sighed or smiled, Jem felt himself grow as soft as a child; And he fancied the sky never looked so bright, The grass so green, the daisies so white; Everything looked so gay in his sight That gladly he'd linger to watch them till night,-- And Molly herself thought each little bird Whose warbling notes her calm soul stirred,-- Sang only his lay but by her to be heard.

An Irish courtship's short and sweet, It's sometimes foolish and indiscreet; But who is wise when his young heart's heat Whips the pulse to a galloping beat-- Ties up his judgment neck and feet And makes him the slave of a blind conceit? Sneer not, therefore, at the loves of the poor, Though their manners be rude their affections are pure; They look not by art, and they love not by rule, For their souls are not tempered in fashion's cold school. Oh! give me the love that endures no control But the delicate instinct that springs from the soul, As the mountain stream gushes its freshness and force, Yet obedient, wherever it flows to its source. Yes, give me that but Nature has taught, By rank unallured and by riches unbought; Whose very simplicity keeps it secure-- The love that illumines the heart of the poor.

All blushful was Molly, or shy at least As one week before Lent Jem procured her consent To go the next Sunday and spake to the priest, Shrove-Tuesday was named for the wedding to be, And it dawned as bright as they'd wish to see. And Jemmy was up at the day's first peep For the live-long night, no wink could he sleep; A bran-new coat, with a bright big button, He took from a chest, and carefully put on-- And brogues as well _lampblacked_ as ever went foot on Were greased with the fat of _a quare sort of mutton_! Then a tidier _gorsoon_ couldn't be seen Treading the Emerald sod so green-- Light was his step and bright was his eye As he walked through the _slobbery_ streets of Athy. And each girl he passed, bid "God bless him," and sighed, While she wished in her heart that herself was the bride.

Hush! here's the Priest--let not the least Whisper be heard till the father has ceased. "Come, bridegroom and bride, That the knot may be tied Which no power upon earth can hereafter divide." Up rose the bride, and the bridegroom too, And a passage was made for them both to walk through! And his Rev'rence stood with a sanctified face, Which spread its infection around the place. The bridesmaid bustled and whispered the bride, Who felt so confused that she almost cried, But at last bore up and walked forward, where The Father was standing with solemn air; The bridegroom was following after with pride, _When his piercing eye something awful espied_! He stooped and sighed, Looked round and tried To tell what he saw, but his tongue denied: With a spring and a roar, He jumped to the door, AND THE BRIDE LAID HER EYES ON THE BRIDEGROOM NO MORE!

Some years sped on Yet heard no one Of Jemmy O'Hare, or where he had gone. But since the night of that widowed feast, The strength of poor Molly had ever decreased; Till, at length, from earth's sorrow her soul released, Fled up to be ranked with the saints at least.

And the morning poor Molly to live had ceased, Just five years after the widowed feast, An American letter was brought to the priest, Telling of Jemmy O'Hare deceased! Who ere his death, With his latest breath, To a spiritual father unburdened his breast And the cause of his sudden departure confest,-- "Oh! Father," says he, "I've not long to live, So I'll freely confess, and hope you'll forgive-- That same Molly Muldoon, sure I loved her indeed; Ay, as well, as the Creed That was never forsaken by one of my breed; But I couldn't have married her after I saw"-- "Saw what?" cried the Father desirous to hear-- And the chair that he sat in unconsciously rocking-- "Not in her 'karacter,' yer Rev'rince, a flaw"-- The sick man here dropped a significant tear And died as he whispered in the clergyman's ear-- "But I saw, God forgive her, A HOLE IN HER STOCKING!"

THE HARMONIOUS LOBSTERS.

ROBERT REECE.

It has always appeared to me as a remarkable fact that the practice of Music does not promote amongst its devotees the harmony which is its own very gist and soul. The "concord of sweet sounds" is not reflected in the good fellowship and friendly cohesion of musicians; and the spiritualising power of the divine art seems too often to evaporate with the notes produced, and leave with its professors the hard _residuum_ of an exact science and a mechanical art.

The rivalry and jealousy so noticeable amongst musical people is peculiar to them; and, though you may with impunity neglect to demand from the actors, poets, painters, sculptors, preachers, physicians, surgeons, or lawyers an exhibition of their skill in their respective arts, you will make a foe for life if you omit to ask the musician to perform.

We all know the "musical people" at parties; how cordially we welcome the production of that fatal waterproof roll, with its diabolical contents of "pieces" and "ballads;" how enthusiastically we press Jones to "give us another song," and how cheerfully and promptly (I might almost say "hastily") Jones obliges us. It is of no use suggesting to Miss Robinson that you "are afraid you are taxing her too far." Miss Robinson has another ballad, or another "piece"--"Tricklings at Eve," or "Wobblings at Noon," ready for you.

I have belonged to several musical clubs in my time, and know something of my subject, especially the amateur section of it. I once officiated at a professional gathering to the great hurt of a very kind man. I was invited by a genial music publisher to join a "professional dinner" which he gave yearly to the principal musicians, his very good friends. The profession mustered very strongly, and did ample justice to excellent fare; on our repairing to the drawing-room, I expected, of course, to be entertained with some really good music, but I found that no one would "start the ball."

In the full glare of professional eyes I opened the piano and the proceedings myself. Before I had played forty bars every "professional" was making for the instrument. I concluded. I had "started the ball," or rather a musical "boomerang," which was to return viciously upon me and my host.

Every man present held the pianoforte in turn, and at half-past two in the morning (_I_ had commenced at ten in the evening), there were still some unwearied musicians insisting on playing their own compositions to unappreciative audiences of rival professors. Perhaps they are still playing. I never did any business with that music publisher again.

Years ago I belonged to an amateur musical society which had its being in a fashionable suburb, and was known by the felicitous title, "The Harmonious Lobsters." To account for this name I may state that the society owed its origin to certain jovial meetings held at a friend's chambers, where these succulent _crustacea_ were discussed (to soft music) at supper, twice a month. As the club grew, the suppers deceased; and, as the society became important and pretentious, so the original joviality evaporated.

"The Harmonious Lobsters" were as pleasant amongst themselves as the genuine uncooked articles are in a fishmonger's basket. Every member struggled to be "top-sawyer;" every artist, down to the little doctor who played the triangle regarded himself as the mainstay, sole prop, and presiding genius of the society.

We mustered a small orchestra, consisting of two flutes, two cornets, two violins, one viola, one violoncello, a drum, a clarionet, and the triangle above mentioned.

The performances of this "limited band" were more remarkable for their force than their precision; and a want of "tone" and completeness was the result of an endeavour on the part of each performer to make the instrument he played specially conspicuous. It didn't matter so much with the flutes, violins, and clarionet; but the two cornets were a serious nuisance.

Gasper and Puffin (both "first" cornets, of course!) were deadly rivals, implacable foes. Each aspired to be the ruler of the club, each regarded himself as _the_ performer _par excellence_. The flutes were not friendly, and the violoncello was crabbed and unpleasant, but those cornets were insufferable.

We all felt that a crisis was at hand, and we all devoutly wished it; for while Puffin and Gasper asserted themselves, we others were, to a defined extent, hiding our light under a bushel.

The catastrophe was foreshadowed by a stormy meeting convened to arrange the programme of our fourth and last annual concert.

"Of course," premised the First Violin, who was also Secretary and Librarian, "we have all a solo!"

There was no doubt of _that_, except as regarded the "doubles," viz., the two flutes and the two cornets. The first couple had so far coalesced as to submit to the prowess being displayed in a duet, which was destined to be less flute than elaborate flatulence.

"Let's begin at the beginning," said Gasper. "No. 1: that's an overture for _tutti_; say, 'The Caliph of Bagdad.'"

"_I_ don't mind," responded the Secretary. "It's easy enough, and there's lots of show for the violins."

"The question now arises," jerked in Puffin, "who is to be the _first_ soloist? _I_ won't."

"Nor likely to be," sneered Gasper.

"I understand your narrow-mindedness, Gasper," retorted Puffin; "but I shall choose my own place and my own solo."

"So shall _I_," announced Gasper; "go on."

The Secretary proceeded.

"Shall we say: SOLO (_Clarionet_)--Mr. R. Lipsey."

"Anything for a quiet life," said Lipsey. "_I_'m not afraid."

So it went on for four more items, when it became obvious that the "best place," in the first part of the programme was open to competition.

"_My_ solo," said Gasper, "comes in here."

"Thank you," replied Puffin; "I claim it myself."

"_Do_ you?" grinned Gasper; "I stick to this point."

"So do _I_," said the undaunted Puffin.

"No, but really, you know," argued the Secretary, "it must be settled: let _me_ cut the knot. _I_'ll play _my_ solo here."

A howl of opposition now arose. Every performer, exclusive of the Drum and the Triangle, had decided to "go in" for the "show place" in the programme.

"I leave the Society if I do not play my solo here," said Gasper. "I have no more to say!" and he sat down.

"So do _I_," echoed Puffin, "and get on with 'The Caliph' if you can without a second cornet."

This was clinching matters with a vengeance.

"Look here," interposed the Doctor. "_I_ don't play a solo, so I speak impartially, I hope. Let Gasper play his solo in _this_ part, and Puffin _his_ solo in the best place of the _second_ part of the programme. That'll settle it."

There was a tumult immediately; everybody seemed to be multiplied by ten.

"Don't be a fool," whispered the Doctor to Gasper. "Stick to your right place in the first part; all the swells look for _that_. They'll be gone before Puffin gets _his_ turn."

Gasper was quiet in a moment.

The Doctor, winking at me, got hold of the stony but still excited Puffin.

"Let him have his blessed solo _early_, my boy," said the Triangle. "The big people won't have taken their seats by then. You'll have it all your own way."

To this day I believe the Doctor had a professional impulse in this advice.

During a lull Puffin spoke.

"_Let_ Mr. Gasper have his solo in the first part. I flatter myself I can face the inferior position without any fear."

"You are _so_ modest," retorted the delighted Gasper. "Put it down, Basscleff. SOLO (_Cornet_) 'The Wind from the Sea,' _Vulvini_--George Gasper, Esq."

"That's _my_ solo," shouted Puffin; "and I'll play it!"

* * * * *

Spare me the recital of the ensuing scene.

"Listen to _me_," said the Triangle, maliciously. "We must come to hard facts, I plainly see. The truth is, the difference between Mr. Gasper and Mr. Puffin (both admirable performers) has assumed the aspect of direct rivalry; I may go so far as to say, antagonism. Laudable, so far as art is concerned; lamentable for the ill-feeling promoted. I suggest that, for the setting at rest of the unfortunate dispute, and the better spirit of the Society, it be arranged that the two gentlemen _do_ play the same solo at the same concert."

Loud shouts, of varied sentiment, followed this daring speech.

"A moment, please," cried the Doctor; "as Treasurer of this Musical Society I may state that our financial condition is not so satisfactory as it might be: if this competition gets wind--I mean, of course, if people get to know of it, we shall have an enormous house."

After some disputing, it was agreed that there was cogency in the Doctor's suggestion.

Other members were appeased with situations in the programme more or less prominent, but when the twenty-four items had been satisfactorily arranged, and the club separated, the general feeling was that the interest of the concert, and the stake at issue, were the competitive performances of Messrs. Puffin and Gasper.

The evening of the concert arrived: so did Doctor Martel at my rooms: the little man was suffused with delight.

"My dear fellow!" he chuckled, "it'll be the funniest thing you ever saw. I've been running to and fro all the week. Now to Gasper, now to Puffin. 'You should hear Puffin phrase that passage about the 'wind moaning,' said I to Gasper, 'it's tiptop,' and Gasper grinds his teeth. Then I go to Puffin and say, 'Gasper's devoting himself to making a hit, old man; the way he imitates the surge of the wave in the passage 'The wild wave answers the winds,' will 'fetch' them, and no mistake!' and Puffin turns pale."

"What does it all portend?" asked I.

"Wait and see, my lad," said the sly Doctor. "Wait and see."

* * * * *

Eight o'clock! and I meet Puffin as I enter the "Artists' Room." I play the _violino secondo_. I am nobody.

"Well," say I, "how do you feel?"

"Never mind," says the astute Puffin; "I bide my time! _Only_ (mark my words), Gasper won't score as heavily as he expects." With these dark words he vanishes.

The next moment I am face to face with Gasper.

"How do you feel?" I ask of _him_.

"Don't worry about _me_," replies Gasper. "I'm not afraid that Puffin will cover himself with glory, after all." And Gasper retires.

We had a wonderful "house" that night. The "competition" _had_ been noised abroad, and the wily doctor's surmises were fulfilled. There was a Puffin and a Gasper faction ready to do battle for its respective champion when the clarion of defiance rang out from the platform.

I pass the overture, a solo on the clarionet, which reduced the pug-nose of Lipsey to a severe aquiline during its performance; a flute and violin _duo_, and etc. The time had come for "The Wind from the Sea" (_George Gasper Esq._). The favourite performer was hailed with shouts of delight. The Puffin faction smiled silently.

The opening bars of the symphony were played by the pianist.

Gasper advanced with a half-restrained smile of self-satisfaction, and after some singular contortions of his lips began to play the _scena_ for the cornet.

But no sound followed his laboured effort! Again, and again, red in the face, and furious, he essayed to produce a note from his silver instrument. It was dumb!

Not so the Puffin section of the audience; the titter soon became a laugh, the laugh a shout, and finally with a stamp, and a diabolical expression, Mr Gasper gave up the game, and retreated amidst a howl of displeasure.

Meanwhile where was Puffin? Never mind.

Slowly went on the programme, till the item for which Mr. Puffin was "set down" arrived in its place.

More sensation in the audience. Puffin section cock-a-hoop. Similar symphony on the part of the pianist, and the placid Puffin, a foregone victory shaping his lips into a half-concealed smile, put his cornet to his mouth, and----

Well! while the audience was fighting its way out, half hysterical with laughter (for the performance of Mr. Puffin had only reproduced Mr. Gasper's failure), I was the unwilling witness of a "set-to" between the rival cornet-players, who, having discovered that each had, respectively, placed a cork up the principal tube of his opponent's instrument, so far agreed, as to differ as to the justice of the process. From the appearance of their upper lips, I am sure no solos were to be apprehended for weeks to come. But, before our next club meeting, Messrs. Gasper and Puffin had retired.

I don't belong to any musical clubs now.

(_By permission of the Author._)

THE PROVINCIAL LANDLADY.

H. CHANCE NEWTON.

Oh, dear Mister Editor, sir, if you please, they say you're a kind and humanious gent, sir, Which listens attentive to troubles and woes sech as worry an 'ard-working woman like me; I'm worrited dreadful from morning to night with working and toilin' and sech,--which the rent, sir, Is not always quite so forthcoming as I, with my fam'ly, would wish it to be!

Which I keeps a big house in the square, sir, not five minits' walk from the R'yal Theaytre, Jest oppersit Muggins's Music-hall, sir, which its "public" is known as the "Linnet and Lamb"-- But I am a lamb, sir, to stand it as I do, a-working away up till midnight, or later, For a lot of purfessional folks, which the best of the bunch, sir, is nothing but sham!

From them music-hall people as lodges with me is a set which I'm sure, sir, is simply outragious, A-rushin' all over the house when I've scrubbed it and cleaned it jest like a new pin;-- And as for them second-floor folks (which is niggers) believe me their conduct is something rampagious, A-larkin' all over the landing, a-spoilin' the paper,--it's really a sin!

And the party wot sings comic songs, sir, goes in and out shouting whenever he pleases, And the next floor (the serio-comic)--well, there, she's a stuck-up, impertinent miss, Which the last ones as had them apartments wos folks as performed on the "flyin' trapeeses," And went away two pun' thirteen in my debt, and I've never beheld 'em from that day to this.

Than there's that ventrillikist party, as imitates different voices, and that, sir,-- He frightens me out of my wits, which I'm sure as I haven't too many to spare; And as for that Muggins's chairman, I frequently finds him asleep on the mat, sir, Which I characterises behaviour like that as werry disgraceful and shocking--so there!

Then the Sisters Mac-Jones (them duettists) comes bouncin' all over the place, quite disdainful, A fault-findin' day after day, sir, dressed up in their fal-de-rals, looking like guys; And the party that sings sentimental goes on in a way as to me, sir, is painful, He smokes a long pipe in the garding, which dreadful proceedings I can't but despise.

Then a troop which I think is called ackribacks, knocks my best parlour to rack and to ruin, A-chucking of summersets over my splendid meeogany tables and chairs; Why to-day they all stood on their heads in the passage: "Good gracious," I shouted, "why what are you doin'?" When they twisted their legs round their necks, sir, made faces, and told me to toddle downstairs!

Which I don't wish to make a remark, sir, that might be unpleasant, but while I was at it I thought as I'd mention the matters that cause me continual worry and din, For if you excuse the expression, I ses, as for lettin' of lodgins',--oh, drat it! "_If it wasn't for makin' it out of their board_," sir,--by jingers, I'd never let lodgins' agin!

(_From_ "THE PENNY SHOWMAN," _by permission of the Author and_ MR. SAMUEL FRENCH.)

MY MATRIMONIAL PREDICAMENT.

LEOPOLD WAGNER.

I dare say a great many men in my situation would think themselves highly honoured; but, however this may strike others, I fell bound to confess that I am far from happy. The truth is, I have become so entangled in the meshes of a really romantic love affair, that I can see no possible hope of freeing myself. Let me hasten to explain.

About twelve months ago I engaged myself to a pretty young girl, who, out of sheer fickleness--it could have been nothing else--jilted me. I was much cut up at the time, since I had learnt to grow very fond of her. A little while after, I began to take an interest in another pretty girl whom I came in contact with almost daily; but, as I had no means of getting properly introduced to her, I never spoke. By-and-by she disappeared, and I soon forgot her. Things went on with me in the usual way until, suddenly growing tired of my lonely existence, I advertised for "a nice young girl, thoroughly domesticated, able and willing to make a good-looking young bachelor happy;" adding, "Previous experience not necessary." In this way I actually found one who answered my expectations to the letter. We met, took the usual walks; and in the course of a week or two, I could see she loved me with her whole heart. The arrangments for our wedding were soon made. I procured the ring and keeper; then put up the banns. Now the house I live in is peculiarly situated. When I lie in bed, my head is in Blankshire, while my feet extend over the boundary-line into Chumpshire. This may appear a slight matter enough; and yet, I fancy, that if hard times should ever overtake me, I would have two different parishes to fall back upon. However, I found it necessary to publish the banns in both parishes; added to which my _fiancee_, who is, or rather was, a lady's maid, a mile or two away in another direction, must needs put them up in her own parish also. So that I ought to reckon myself very much married, when it's all over. But here comes my predicament.