"Then I shall certainly not continue the search," exclaimed the accountant, laying down his spoon. "Oh! but that is not fair," cried Mrs. Bemmidge. "You must finish your pudding. And, besides, it is my guard ring, and I cannot have it lost." "I never willingly put myself in the way of misfortune," said Mr. Geith solemnly. cigar-case, procured matches, and made herself busy, getting a saucer to hold the ashes. "That is my useful little girl," remarked Mr. Bemmidge. "I wonder if she could eat an orange?" Whereupon Amy put her finger in her mouth, and looked as if she had never dexterously appropriated an orange in her life. After that, she climbed on the knees of all the gentlemen in succession, and reversing the position "Only hear him," exclaimed Mrs. Gilling, with of Mr. Foss's cigar when it lay on the table, had her mouth full of plums. "I hope, ring or no ring, you will be married by this time next year," said Mr. Bemmidge, “for a man never knows what true comfort and happiness is till he has a wife to take care of him." "You speak from a fortunate experience," answered Mr. Geith. "If all marriages were as happy as yours- -" and the hypocrite turned to Mrs. Bemmidge and the young olive-branches round the table, who were by this time busy with his plate, looking out "mamma's ring," and quarrelling for the candied lemon. the inexpressible satisfaction of seeing him put the hot end in his mouth. Shrieks of laughter from Andrew and Henry, however, exposed the culprit, and Miss Amy, together with her brothers, was shown the door by her father, who remarked apologetically to his cousin that "children would be children." Whether Mr. Foss found the aphorism cool his mouth, I cannot say, but it is certain he declined further smoking for that night. It was all very well talking to Mr. Bemmidge and Mr. Foss when the children were away. Suddenly came a little scream from Miss Gilling Of course the conversation turned on business —she had nearly swallowed the ring. topics, but business was a topic George Geith "Gerty's got it! Gerty's got it!" cried parents liked. and children in chorus. "We may hope, then," said George, "to meet again before next Christmas on a different occasion. That is," he added, "if I may be allowed the honour of being present." But at this point Miss Gilling's confusion and blushes became so painful that Mrs. Bemmidge desired Amy to ring the bell. "If you won't have a mince-pie, Mr. Geith," she said, quite piteously. "You really must excuse me," he replied. And then the servant came, and went through a ceremony that Mrs. Bemmidge called clearing away;" after which Mrs. Gilling again officiated, and dessert was placed on the table. 66 "May I 'tay with papa and Mr. Teeth, mamma?" asked Amy, when the ladies rose to depart. "Yes, if you are good," said mamma; and Miss Bemmidge, and consequently the boys, remained. Certainly, if the condition mentioned in her mother's speech had been enforced, the young lady would have been summarily expelled from the apartment. So long as the quartet could get Mr. Foss to supply them with fruit, they remained preternaturally quiet; but when even Mr. Foss thought they had made sufficient inroads on the oranges and walnuts, Miss Bemmidge commenced to be dictatorial towards her brothers, and so aggravated Tommy that he pushed her off her chair, for which offence he was ejected from the delights of after dinner-chat, and sent in disgrace to his mother. "You smoke, I know, Geith," said Mr. Bemmidge; and thereupon Amy rushed away for the The mysteries of the wine trade were unveiled for the visitor's edification. The adulteration, tricks, the doctoring, were all duly discussed over shall I write it, reader?-brandy-and-water. Mr. Bemmidge talked about Messrs. Reuben and Issachar, "who had been exchequered for eighty thousand, and paid the fine," said Mr. Bemmidge, taking the cigar out of his mouth, "with a cheque. They were exchequered," he went on, "for filling barrels with water, and shipping them as brandy, in order to get the draw-back. They managed, by fitting a tin tube to the bung-hole, to enable the Custom-house officers to taste the very finest brandy. How much they made, nobody ever knew," added Mr. Bemmidge, nor how much they might have made, but for a row with one of their men, who informed against them." Then there were Cripple, Hold, and Sons, who ran their spirit off through the streets; beside gas-pipes and water-pipes, through houses, stables, and warehouses, and only paid duty on about a third they made. Further, there was Mr. Briggins, who sold thousands of pipes of wine, and yet, still, who scarcely ever took a single pipe out of bond. "He made it all-heaven only knows how," said Mr. Bemmidge, regretfully; "and the secret died with him. I could not have told his wine from the best Portuguese; and, indeed, nobody could, if the wine would have kept. But it would not. It mildewed in a month. The firm sold it at forty shillings a dozen, and twenty to the trade. And didn't the trade push it-only trust them!" So the talk went on till it was time to join the ladies, who were seated in the drawing-room, all domestic arrangements over, waiting for the evening guests, who arrived in due season, attired in dresses that were certainly very gay, determined to enjoy themselves and make Christmas-day a merry one indeed. dance a minuet with the tongs. There was "blind man's buff," in which game Miss Gilling caught Mr. Geith, and exclaiming, "I have got you at last, Mr. Jones," blushed becomingly when she discovered her mistake-"If it was a mistake," whispered Mrs. Jones, nudging her neighbour, Mrs. Thomas. Can you picture the evening, my reader? the tea, handed round by awkward yet gallant And the singing after supper! The comic cavaliers, who upset the cups, trampled on the songs, at which George laughed as he had not ladies' dresses, and made funny little speeches laughed before since he was a boy, not because of that kept the company in a roar. The card- any especial comicality in the songs, but because tables, where whist was played for sixpenny of the intense funniness of the singers. The stakes, and old ladies appropriated George Geith's winnings with an activity which it was cheering to remark in persons of their age The dancing, for which Mrs. Bemmidge played Sir Roger de Coverley, Hertz quadrilles, and Scotch reels The games, mistakes in which entailed forfeits, and forfeits involved a young gentleman seeking about for the prettiest girl in the room to kiss; a young lady standing in the corner, and remarking 'Here I stand as stiff as a stake Who'll come and release me for charity's sake?" Upon hearing which pathetic appeal a rush was usually made towards the spot she occupied. This person was to eat three inches off the poker; that to compose a verse of poetry, and another to (Drawn by T. W. Wilson.) sentimental ditties, emanating chiefly from the ladies, that were all pitched 'somewhere about F sharp, and went up into screams from thence. To say nothing of Mrs. Bemmidge, who, being too shy to favour the company, was yet overpowered by numbers, and induced at length to break forth into melody. It was impossible she could sing, however, if people looked at her; so, to obviate this difficulty, she turned her chair round, and sat with her back to the table, in which position she delighted her guests with the account of a lady "Who left her home To fly with a Christian knight." When that was finished, her sister followed with "Love not," which performance Mr. Foss immediately capped with "Love on "-a song which was rapturously encored by all the young men and married ladies of the party. After supper, more forfeits, more dancing, and louder and faster revelry, that reminded George Geith of the sounds that used to be borne to his ear when he kept solitary state in furnished apartments. "Things went off capitally," Mrs. Bemmidge said to her mother, when the door closed behind the last batch of departing guests, "and I am sure Mr. Geith enjoyed himself." "If he did not, he ought to," remarked Mrs. Gilling in a tone of the liveliest conviction; albeit her voice was a little thick. Meantime, George Geith was walking with a splitting head-ache through the deserted City streets. "If that be pleasure," he ungratefully soliloquised, as he entered Fen Court, where the grave-yard looked ghastly in the grey morn ing light-"If that be pleasure, give me work." HUNTED BY THE EAST WIND. [By J. ASHBY-STERRY.] OTWITHSTANDING my profound admiration for the author of "Westward Ho," I propose to start a "Society for the Suppression of Kingsley." Ever since he uttered his memorable words in praise of the east wind, this abominable blast has persisted in blowing with more untiring constancy and more blighting bitterness than formerly. It is high time that some protest should be made. If the great writer already alluded to likes to be poet laureate to the east wind let him, but let them both go away to some uninhabited island and shiver and howl to the music of chattering teeth. We want none of the music of the east wind, nor songs sung in its praise here. I think I am expressing the feelings of the entire population of London when I say we are absolutely disgusted with the east wind. The east wind is totally different from other breezes, it has not a blusterous honesty about it. Not by any means. It is a nasty, sneaking, insidious, underhand, unprincipled kind of a wind. It appears to open the pores of your skin till it is like a colander; it riddles your bones with fine pinholes, and then blows through them till you seem to have neuralgia all over your body. It penetrates the thickest of cloths and the most formidable of friezes. You may fortify yourself with flannel waistcoats, you may don double-breasted sealskin waistcoats, you may wear three or four pairs of trousers, but the east wind will penetrate everything and make you as miserable, as hopelessly wretched, as man can possibly be. And yet a man of such eloquence and erudition as Canon Kingsley can be found to sing in praise of it. Far more sensible was a certain obscure individual who sang simply but expressively "The wind in the east is neither good for man nor beast." How beautiful and how true is this! How true in its simplicity, and how simple in its truth! I am inclined to think that there must be a mistake in the proverb " It is an ill wind that blows nobody good." It should run in this wise: "It is an east wind that blows nobody good." Did you ever know an east wind blow any good to anybody? Did you ever know it to do any good to anything? A bitter, remorseless, scathing, revengeful kind of wind is that of the east. The worst of it is you cannot escape from it. It follows you everywhere. It hunts you down. Like the famous "Goosey Gander" of nursery lore celebrity, it goes "upstairs, and down-stairs, and in my lady's chamber." You cannot get rid of it. If it were like that unprincipled elderly individual spoken of in the same poem, who omitted to perform his devotional exercises on every possible occasion, you might treat it in the same summary fashion. You might "take it by its left leg and throw it downstairs." There is, however, no getting hold of the east wind. It is a nasty, dodgy, disreputable, sneaking kind of wind that would not meet you in duello in an honest gentlemanly fashion. It will wait for you round corners, and give you a stab in the back when you are not looking; it will come upon you suddenly in the dark and wound you. It holds an everlasting and blasting vendetta against every man, woman, and child in the universe. I think it is high time that a protest was made against Canon Kingsley's praise of this most abominable of breezes, otherwise people may begin to believe that there really is some good in the east wind after all. I own that I should love to write a satire, for which I would like Mr. Arthur Sullivan to compose the music. I would call it "The East Wind: a Catarrhic Cantata, in Three Blows." I have a host of characters I could introduce most effectively. Fancy Baron Bronchitis, Prince Pneumonia, Sergeant Stethescope, the Fair Neuralgia, Rheu Matticks the Robber, and Tic the Dolorous. Imagine a sneezing song, a coughing trio, and a gargling duet. I see a wide field for both musician FIRST CONCERT OF THE ACRID PULMONIC SOCIETY AND Overture, "La Influenza" Duet, "Rub in the Croton Oil " Tramontana. of the musical journals of the day, failed to command the success it deserved. I feel strongly, I may say very strongly, on this subject. I have been hunted by the east wind for many days past. I have dodged it as well as I can. It is, however, stalking after me, it is following me, and will run me down sooner or later. It chivied me to the opening of a new theatre the other night, it crept under the stalls and caught hold of my legs in the most unceremonious manner. I subsequently went by underground railway, and was pursued by the east wind through its cavernous depths. It caught me at the back of the neck, it nipped my ears, it iced my teeth, it gripped me in every conceivable way. In vain I tried to shake it off. It hunted me from pillar to post. It pursued me until I reached the comfortable smokingroom of the club. Here I left it at the door for awhile and forgot all about it when basking in the genial warmth of the fire. O, vile east wind, thought I, I have jockeyed thee at last! I was mistaken. The east wind is not so easily thrust aside. I felt a sharp twinge at the back of Tenor Solo, "Come and have a Gargle, Maud" Bron. Chitis. my neck, wafted through a crack in the window Tischoff. Kingsley. Russian Melody, "Tishooatishoo"... Prince Gotsachacorff. (Possetively the first time of performance.) Between the parts, Mr. Titkins will gargle for ten minutes, in eighteen different languages; and the Committee will sit with their feet in hot mustard and water and have their noses solemnly tallowed to slow music in a minor key. Leschetitzky. This song will last five minutes, during which the performer will sneeze no less than 568 times. Madrigal, "Come, let us all a Coughing go" Grufflin, 1582. Tenor solo, "Who shall be Gruffest?" Snorter. Catarrhic solo, "So early id the bordig " Hollah. Valse, "Black Currant Tea " Sneezing Trio, from "Der Tischutz" Selection from "Il Corfnomore " frame that showed me my enemy was waiting for me outside, and reminded me there was more torture in store for me on my way home. I endeavoured to put off the evil day. I remained in front of the blazing fire far into the small hours, endeavouring to put off the evil hour. But, alas! I knew it must come ! It came ! My old enemy was waiting round the corner, and pounced down on me with his vile talons directly I emerged from the warm shelter of the club. I put my coat collar up, I muffled my neck with a woollen comforter, but all to no purpose. Pitiless and savage, he persecuted me all the way home. O! east wind, O! terrible east wind, mayest thou blow for the future only upon him who has sung thy praises. The east wind delights to pretend it is not the east wind. It likes to make believe to leave off blowing when the sun is brightly shining in order that it may tempt delicate people out of doors, and then strike them down with a remorseless cruelty. It delights to devour delicate maidens, and to annihilate young children. It is cruel, vindictive, heartless, and inhuman. It loves to blight the flowers and to hinder vegetation, and its greatest Tryfisher. joy is to make havoc with early spring and trample List. under its cloven foot violets and primroses. The Frohsdorf. Tschubert. Tschumann. Stalls (with an endless supply of gargles, mustard-and-east wind loveth desolation, despair and death. water, and every other catarrhic luxury), 5s.; area (with cough lozenges), 2s. 6d.; back seats (with unlimited draughts), 1s. Doors open at half-past seven. Performance to commence as soon as people are a little comfortable, and their coughs easy. N.B.-A medical gentleman will be in attendance. The east wind is terrible. It loves to visit the habitations of the poor: to blow the last rag of clothing off their backs and the faintest spark of fire out of their grates; to torture them till they are so numb and faint with its cruelty that they have scarcely any feeling whatever remaining. It loves to do the work of the destroyer: to blight, to wither, and to blast. UNCLE JACK.* WAS somewhere about sixteen when, on going home for the holidays, I found my mother's brother settled among the household Lares. Uncle Jack, as he was familiarly called, was a light-hearted, plausible, enthusiastic, talkative fellow, who spent three small fortunes in trying to make a large one. | towards the unfortunate; only, whenever a nation is in a misfortune, there is always a job going on! The Polish cause, the Greek cause, the Mexican cause, and the Spanish cause are necessarily mixed up with loans and subscriptions. These continental patriots, when they take up the sword with one hand, generally contrive to thrust the other hand deep into their neighbours' breeches pockets. Uncle Jack went to Greece, thence he went to Spain, thence to Mexico. No doubt he was of great service to those afflicted populations, for he came back with unanswerable proof of their gratitude, in the shape of £3,000. Shortly after this appeared a prospectus of the "New, Grand, National, Benevolent Insurance Company, for the Industrious Classes." This invaluable document, after setting forth the immense benefits to society arising from habits of providence, and the introduction of insurance companies-proving the infamous rate of premiums exacted by the existent offices, and their inapplicability to the wants of the honest artisan, and declaring that nothing but the purest intentions of benefiting their fellowcreatures, and raising the moral tone of society, had led the directors to institute a new society, founded on the noblest principles and the most moderate calculations-proceeded to demonstrate that twenty-four and a half per cent. was the smallest possible return the shareholders could anticipate. The company began under the fairest auspices: an archbishop was caught as president, on the condition always that he should give nothing but his name to the society. Uncle Jack Uncle Jack was a great speculator; but in all his speculations he never affected to think of himself-it was always the good of his fellowcreatures that he had at heart, and in this ungrateful world fellow-creatures are not to be relied upon! On coming of age, he inherited £6,000 from his maternal grandfather. It seemed to him then that his fellow-creatures were sadly imposed upon by their tailors. Those ninth parts of humanity notoriously eked out their fractional existence by asking nine times too much for the clothing which civilisation, and perhaps a change of climate, render more necessary to us than to our predecessors, the Picts. Out of pure philanthropy, Uncle Jack started a Grand National Benevolent Clothing Company, which undertook to supply the public with inexpressibles of the best Saxon cloth at 7s. 6d. a pair; coats, superfine, £1 18s.; and waistcoats at so much per dozen. They were all to be worked off by steam. Thus the rascally tailors were to be put down, humanity clad, and the philanthropists rewarded (but that was a secondary consideration) with a clear return of 30 per cent. In spite of the evident charitableness of this Christian design, and the irrefragable-more euphoniously designated as "the celebrated calculations upon which it was based, this company died a victim to the ignorance and unthankfulness of our fellow-creatures. And all that remained of Jack's £6,000 was a fifty-fourth share in a small steam-engine, a large assortment of ready-made pantaloons, and the liabilities of the directors. Uncle Jack disappeared, and went on his travels. The same spirit of philanthropy which characterised the speculations of his purse attended the risks of his person. Uncle Jack had a natural leaning towards all distressed communities: if any tribe, race, or nation was down in the world, Uncle Jack threw himself plump into the scale to redress the balance. Poles, Greeks (the last were then fighting the Turks), Mexicans, Spaniards -Uncle Jack thrust his nose into all their squabbles!-Heaven forbid I should mock thee, poor Uncle Jack! for those generous predilections philanthropist, John Jones Tibbets, Esquire"was honorary secretary, and the capital stated at two millions. But such was the obtuseness of the industrious classes, so little did they perceive the benefits of subscribing one-and-nine-pence a week from the age of twenty-one to fifty, in order to secure at the latter age an annuity of £18, that the company dissolved into thin air, and with it Uncle Jack's £3,000. Nothing more was then seen or heard of him for three years. So obscure was his existence, that on the death of an aunt who left him a small farm in Cornwall, it was necessary to advertise that "If John Jones Tibbets, Esq., would apply to Messrs. Blunt and Tin, Lothbury, between the hours of ten and four, he would hear of something to his advantage." But, even as a conjuror declares that he will call the ace of spades, and the ace of spades, that you thought you had safely under your foot, turns up By permission of Messrs. George Routledge and Sons. |