The Wallypug in London
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It was shortly after this that the Doctor-in-Law, hearing what a vast fortune might be made in literature, decided to start a magazine of his own.
After a lot of argument it was thought best to call it The Wallypug’s Own, as the name was considered a striking one. The first number was to be a very elaborate affair, and, for weeks before it appeared, all of my guests were busily engaged in its production.
“There will be a good opportunity for some of your poems appearing at last,” hinted the Doctor-in-Law to the Rhymester, which so delighted the poor little fellow that he set to work at once upon a number of new ones. A. Fish, Esq., contributed a very learned article on the subject of “The Prevalence of Toothache amongst Fish: its Cause and Treatment”; while the great attraction of the number was an historical article by the Wallypug on the subject of “Julius Caesar,” illustrated by his Majesty himself. As a special favour, the original drawing was presented to me by his Majesty, and I am thus enabled to reproduce it for your benefit. His Majesty confided to me that parts of it were traced from a picture which appeared in the Boys’ Own Paper some time ago, but of course we did not tell everybody that.
The essay itself was quite original, and was worded somehow like this:
“Julius Caesar was a man, and he lived in Rome. He came over to conquer Britain because he heard there was a lot of tin here, and when he arrived he said in Latin, ‘Veni, vidi, vici,’ which means, ‘I have come, and thou wilt have to skedaddle’, which has been the British motto ever since. But the Ancient Britons who lived here then, didn’t understand Latin, and so they went for Julius Caesar, and shook their fists in his face, and tried to drive him and his followers away. But Julius Caesar and the Romans were civilized, and had daggers and things, and shields, and wore firemen’s helmets, and kilts like Scotchmen, so they soon overcame the Ancient Britons; and they built London Wall, and made a lot of combs, and glass tear-bottles, and brooches, and sarcophaguses, that you can see in the Museum at the Guildhall; and then they went back to Rome, and Julius Caesar was stabbed by his friend Brutus, to show how much he liked him; and Caesar, when he found out he was stabbed, cried out in Latin, ‘Et tu, Brute,’ which means ‘Oh, you brute,’ and lived happy ever after. I have drawn the picture of Julius Caesar landing in Britain – that’s him waving things, and calling to the others to come on.”
The Doctor-in-Law was editor, and arranged a number of competitions, and in order to enter for them you had only to send two shillings in stamps, while the prizes were advertised as follows: First prize, £1000 a year for life; second prize, thirty-six grand pianos and fourteen bicycles; third prize, a sewing machine and six cakes of scented soap. The prizes were to be awarded for the first correct answers received by post, but the Doctor-in-Law took good care to write three sets of answers himself, and put them in our letter-box a half-an-hour before the first post arrived, so that nobody got prizes but himself. He made a good deal of money, too, by pretending to tell your fortune by the creases in your collar. All you had to do was to send an old collar and fourteen penny stamps, and you would receive a letter in reply similar to this:
“You are probably either a male or a female, and will no doubt live till you die. You like to have your own way when you can get it, and when you can’t you get very cross and irritable. You are not so young as you were a few years ago, and you dislike pain of any kind. You will remain single until you marry, and whichever you do you will probably wish you hadn’t.”
The greatest novelty, however, which the Doctor-in-Law introduced in his new magazine was his system of telling your character by your watch and chain. There was no fee charged, and all you had to do was to send your watch and chain (gold preferred), and the Doctor-in-Law would tell your character, quite correctly. It generally was as follows:
“You are a silly donkey, for no one but a donkey would think of sending his watch and chain to a stranger, and if you imagine that you will ever see it again, you are greatly mistaken.”
The Rhymester only had one poem in after all, as, when it came to the point, the Doctor-in-Law charged him a guinea a verse for printing it, and the poor Rhymester could not afford more than one poem at that rate.
This is what he sent:
THE NEW ROBINThe North wind doth blow,And we ought to have snow,If ’tis true what my nurse used to sing,Poor thing.Yet up in yon treeRobin Redbreast I seeAs happy and gay as a king,Poor thing.Look! as true as I live,There’s a boy with a sieveAnd a stick and a long piece of string,Poor thing.But the bird doesn’t care,For I hear him declare,“Pooh! the old dodge he tried in the Spring,Poor thing.”“What ridiculous cheek,”And he turns up his beakEre he tucks his head under his wing,Poor thing.The poor Rhymester was very disappointed at not being able to publish more of his poems, so the Doctor-in-Law, to console him, allowed him to contribute an article on “Fashions for the Month by Our Paris Model.” He made a frightful muddle of it though, not knowing the proper terms in which to describe the various materials and styles. Here is an extract, which will show you better than I can tell, the stupid blunders which he made:
“Hats this season are principally worn on the head, and may be trimmed with light gauzy stuff wobbled round the crown mixed up with various coloured ribbons, and bunches of artificial flowers and fruit.
“Artificial vegetables are not much worn, although a cauliflower or two and a bunch of carrots, with a few cabbages, would form a striking and novel decoration for a hat. If this trimming is considered insufficient, a few brightly coloured tomatoes stuck round the brim might be added, and would render the head-gear particularly ‘chic.’
“Hats for the theatre should be worn large and handsomely trimmed, but for the economically inclined – a last year’s clothes basket trimmed with art muslin, which may be purchased of any good draper at 1-¾d. a yard, cut on the cross and tucked with chiffons, would form a sweetly simple hat, and if tied beneath the chin with an aigrette, and the front filled in with sequins, it would readily be mistaken for one of the new early Victorian bonnets which continue to be worn by the upper housemaids in most aristocratic families.
“I hear that dresses are to be worn again this year by ladies. The most fashionable ones will be made of various sorts of material.
“A charming walking costume suitable for the Autumn may be made of shaded grenadine, trimmed with buckram pom-poms, made up on the selvedge edge.”
There was a lot more nonsense of this kind which I did not at all understand, but which some lady friends who understood these things made great fun of.
You will be surprised, no doubt, to hear that in a weak moment I allowed myself to be persuaded into contributing a little experience of my own.
The Rhymester told me that it was shockingly bad rhyme, but I think that he was jealous because the Doctor-in-Law published it. Anyhow, here it is, so you can judge for yourself. I call it
HE and I and ITOh HE was a PublisherAnd I was a Publishee,And IT was a bookWhich the Publisher tookAnd pub-l-i-s-h-e-d.The Publisher’s smile it was bland,’Twas a beautiful smile to see,As again and againHe took pains to explainHow large my “half-profits” might be.IT had a capital sale,Well reviewed by the Times and D.T.,And a great many more,So my friends by the scoreCame around to congratulate me.And people I scarcely had met,Just “dropped in” to afternoon tea;While my aunt, who’s a swell,Now remembered quite wellThat I was related to she.And girls that were rich and plain,Or pretty and poor, did agreeTo let me supposeThat I’d but to proposeTo be m-a-r-r-i-e-d.Yes, HE published IT in the Spring,That season of frolic and glee;“In the Autumn,” HE said,Gravely nodding his head,“‘Half-profits’ will mean L.S.D.”But Autumn has come and gone,And I’m so to say, “All at sea,”For HE sobs and HE sighsAnd HE turns up his eyesWhen I ask what my “half-profits” be.There are “charges for this, and for that,”And for “things that HE couldn’t foresee,”And HE “very much fears,”So he says twixt his tears,“That there won’t be a penny for me.”Oh! rich is the PublisherAnd poor is the Publishee;Of the profits of ITI shall touch not a bit,They are all swallowed up by HE.The girls now all treat me with scorn —Aunt turns up her n-o-s-e,And my friends all turn tail,While my book they assailAnd call rubbish and twad-d-l-e.Even One-and-Nine and General Mary Jane were smitten with a desire to rush into print, and I overheard them concocting a tragic Love Story in the kitchen, and they were highly indignant later on, because the Doctor-in-Law would not accept it. You can hardly wonder at it though, for it really was too bad for anything.
It was called “The Viscount’s Revenge,” and in it several characters who had been killed in the first part of the book kept cropping up all through the story in a most confusing manner, while One-and-Nine and General Mary Jane could not agree as to whether the heroine should be dark or fair, so in one part of the book she had beautiful golden hair and blue eyes, and in another she was described as “darkly, proudly handsome, with a wealth of dusky hair and eyes as black as night.”
At the last moment it was found necessary to include another poem in the magazine, and, as all of the Rhymester’s were too long, the Doctor-in-Law decided to write one himself, which he called
COMMERCIAL PROBLEMSWhy doth the little busy beeNot charge so much an hour,For gathering honey day by dayFrom every opening flower?And can you tell me why, good sir,The birds receive no payFor singing sweetly in the groveThroughout the livelong day?Why flow’rs should bloom about the placeAnd give their perfume free,In so unbusinesslike a way,Seems very odd to me.I cannot meet a single cowThat charges for her milk,And though they are not paid a sou,The silkworms still spin silk.While ducks and hens, I grieve to find,Lay eggs for nothing too,Which is a most ridiculousAnd foolish thing to do.These problems often puzzle me;I lie awake at night,And think and think what I can doTo set this matter right.I’ve found a way at last, and thoughIt may at first seem funny,It cannot fail – ’tis this: You pay,And I’ll collect the money.CHAPTER X
THE WALLYPUG GOES TO WINDSOR
While they were all busy in the preparation of The Wallypug’s Own, I thought it an excellent opportunity to run down to Folkestone in order to make arrangements for hiring a house, as I intended taking my guests to the seaside for a few weeks.
I felt a little anxious about leaving them to themselves, but hoped that they would be too busy and interested in the new magazine to get into trouble.
It was most unfortunate that I should have gone just then though, for directly I had left the Wallypug received a polite letter from one of the Court officials to say that the Queen would be pleased to receive his Majesty and suite at Windsor on the following day.
Of course, as you may imagine, the Wallypug was in a great state of excitement at receiving this royal invitation, and wished to telegraph at once for me to return and advise them how to act and what to do, on this important occasion; however, the Doctor-in-Law, so I have been given to understand, persuaded his Majesty not to do anything of the sort, and added that I “was always poking about and interfering, and was better out of the way”; so his Majesty, who was very anxious to do the right thing, consulted Mrs. Putchy as to the proper costume to be worn, and the etiquette to be observed.
“Well, your Majesty,” remarked Mrs. Putchy in reply, “I scarcely know what to advise. When in my younger days, I acted as lady’s maid to the Countess of Wembley, I know her ladyship wore a Court train and carried a bouquet when she was presented to the Queen.”
“Where did the engine go?” asked his Majesty curiously.
“The engine!” exclaimed Mrs. Putchy.
“Yes; you said she wore a train, didn’t you?” said the Wallypug.
“Oh! but I didn’t mean that kind of train,” laughed Mrs. Putchy; “I meant a long sort of cloak fastened on to the shoulders and trailing along the ground at the back – they are generally made of satin and velvet, and are decorated with flowers and feathers and lace, and that sort of thing. Your Majesty’s cloak would do nicely if I trimmed it for you.”
“But are you sure that gentlemen wear these sort of things?” inquired the Wallypug.
“Well, I couldn’t rightly say, your Majesty, but I’m sure I’ve seen pictures of kings and such like wearing trains which were borne by pages, so I feel sure your Majesty would be safe in wearing one.”
So it was arranged that, after having been carefully brushed, his Majesty’s velvet cloak was to be gaily decorated with lace and large bunches of flowers, and, to make the thing complete, a large bouquet was tied around his sceptre, and, at the Rhymester’s suggestion, little knots of flowers were attached to the knobs of his Majesty’s crown.
The little man was highly delighted with his appearance when all these arrangements were concluded, and could get but very little sleep that night for thinking of the great honour which was to be his the next day.
The whole household was early astir in the morning, and at about eleven o’clock the carriage came to take the royal guests to the station.
Arrived at Waterloo, the Doctor-in-Law, after making various inquiries as to the price of the tickets, etc., actually had the meanness, despite the remonstrance of the railway officials, to insist upon the whole party travelling down third-class, remarking that he “found the third-class carriages reached there quite as soon as the first, and a penny saved was a penny gained.”
The station master at Windsor was particularly put out about it, as, in honour of his Majesty’s visit, the station had been gaily decorated and a carpet laid down to the carriage door. His Majesty, however, made a brave show as he walked up the platform preceded by the Doctor-in-Law, his gaily decorated train borne by the Rhymester, and followed by A. Fish, Esq., and One-and-Nine, the latter carrying a mysterious bandbox, which contained a present from the Wallypug to her Majesty. (See frontispiece.)
Inside and out the station was crowded with curious spectators, all eager to catch a glimpse of his Majesty and his remarkable retinue, and cheer after cheer resounded as the station master, bare-headed and bowing, ushered the party to the royal carriage with the red and gold-liveried servants, which had been sent from the castle to meet them.
The bells were ringing, and the streets were crowded as they drove through the old town, and his Majesty thoroughly enjoyed the drive, while the Doctor-in-Law was quite in his element amidst all this fuss and excitement.
I did not care to inquire too fully into the details of his Majesty’s interview with the Queen, but I was given to understand that the whole party was treated with the utmost kindness.
Her Majesty graciously accepted at the Wallypug’s hands a gilded crown, an exact copy of the one he wore himself, and which he had had made expressly for her Majesty, having been struck by the fact that her Majesty’s real crown was always kept locked up in the Tower, and hoping that perhaps this one would do for second best.
I could not gather that her Majesty had actually promised to wear it, but I do know that the Wallypug was made exceedingly proud and happy by the gift of a portrait of her Majesty herself, with the royal autograph attached, and that he will always remember the occasion of his visit to Windsor, and the kindness with which he was treated by everyone, particularly by the little Princes and Princesses, her Majesty’s great grand-children, who led him about the Castle grounds, and showed him their pets, and the flowers, and conservatories, and all the wonderful sights of that wonderful place.
In the evening there was a dinner party, at which her Majesty did not appear, and early the next morning a royal carriage again drove them to the station en route for London.
All this I learned on my return from Folkestone. I also heard of an extraordinary evening party which had been given at my house during my absence. It appears that the invitations had been sent out by the Doctor-in-Law the very day upon which I left, and about thirty guests, including the Duchess of Mortlake, had been invited. Unfortunately, however, this visit to Windsor had entirely driven the matter from the Wallypug’s mind, and the others had forgotten about it too, and so a pretty confusion was the result.
It appears that one evening about seven o’clock they were all in the kitchen making toffee, having persuaded Mrs. Putchy to let them have the frying-pan and some sugar and butter, and it having been cooking for some time the Doctor-in-Law had just told the Wallypug to stick his finger in and see if it was done, when Mrs. Putchy came in to say that some ladies and gentlemen had arrived, and were waiting in the drawing-room.
All of a sudden it flashed upon their minds that this was the evening upon which they had invited their visitors to the party. Whatever was to be done? Not the slightest preparation had been made – and his Majesty and the others were all more or less in a sticky condition, and quite unfit to be seen by company.
A hurried consultation took place, during which they could hear more and more guests arriving, and at last, by a brilliant inspiration, the Doctor-in-Law thought of making it a surprise party, similar to those given in America.
“It won’t cost us anything either,” he remarked complacently.
“But what is a surprise party?” asked the others.
“Never mind, you’ll see presently,” remarked the little man. “Run and wash your hands now and make yourselves tidy.”
A few minutes later the whole party filed into the drawing-room, the Wallypug looking rather blank and nervous, and the Doctor-in-Law full of profuse apologies for having kept the guests waiting so long.
“By the way,” he remarked airily, “I suppose you all know that it’s a surprise party.”
“Dear me, no,” said the Duchess of Mortlake, speaking for the others. “Whatever is that; I don’t think it was mentioned on the cards of invitation, was it?”
“Ah! a trifling oversight,” remarked the Doctor-in-Law. “A surprise party,” he continued in explanation, “is one at which each guest is expected to contribute something towards the supper – some bring one thing and some another. What have you brought, may I ask, your Grace?”
“Well, really,” said the Duchess, “I’ve never heard of such a thing in my life before. I’ve not brought anything at all, of course; I’m surprised at your asking me such a question.”
“Ah, yes, just so,” remarked the Doctor-in-Law triumphantly, “just what I told you – a surprise party, don’t you see! Now, what I would advise is that you should all go out and order various things to be sent in for supper; we, for our part, will provide some excellent toffee, and then you can come back and help us to set the tables and all that sort of thing, you know – it’s the greatest fun in the world, I assure you.”
And really the little man carried it off with such gaiety, that entering into the spirit of the thing the guests really did as he suggested, and went out and ordered the things, and afterwards came back, and, amidst great laughter and fun, the tables were laid, every one doing some share of the work, with the exception of the Doctor-in-Law, who contented himself with directing the others and chatting to the ladies.
The poor dear Wallypug amiably toiled backward and forward between the kitchen and dining-room with great piles of plates and other heavy articles, and A. Fish, Esq., in his eagerness to help, was continually treading on his own tail, upsetting himself and the various dishes entrusted to his charge.
At last, however, the supper was set, and the merriest evening you can possibly imagine was spent by the guests. His Majesty was in capital spirits, and after supper suggested a little dancing, which suggestion was hailed with delight by the others, and, having moved some of the furniture out of the drawing-room and pushed the rest away into corners, the Wallypug led off with her Grace the Duchess of Mortlake, and quite distinguished himself in “Sir Roger de Coverley.” Afterwards there was a little singing and music, several of the guests contributing to the evening’s entertainment. Amongst other items was a song by A. Fish, Esq., rendered as well as his bad cold would permit, of which the first lines ran:
I’b siddig here ad lookig at the bood, love,Ad thinkig ov the habby days of old,Wed you ad I had each a wooded spood, love,To eat our porridge wed we had a cold.Altogether the evening was such a success that her Grace declared that it should not be her fault if surprise parties were not the fashion in Society during the coming winter.
CHAPTER XI
HIS MAJESTY AT THE SEASIDE
I sent Mrs. Putchy and General Mary Jane down to the house, which I had engaged on the “Lees” at Folkestone, the day before we were to go, in order to see that everything was ready for us.
“The only thing that is wrong is the kitchen chimney, and that smokes, sir,” said Mrs. Putchy, in answer to my inquiry on the night of our arrival. “I think that we had better have the sweep in the morning, sir.”
“Very well, Mrs. Putchy, I’m sure you know best,” I replied, and thought no more of the matter.
Early in the morning, however, I was awakened by screams and cries proceeding from the lower part of the house.
“Help! help! Burglars! Fire and police! Thieves!” screamed a voice, and hastily dressing myself, I rushed out into the passage, and was confronted by the Rhymester, who had evidently just jumped out of bed, and who, though it was broad daylight, bore a lighted candle in one hand, and a pair of fire tongs in the other.
His teeth were chattering with fright, and his knees were knocking together from the same cause.
“What’s the matter,” I asked in alarm.
“Oh! oh! there are burglars in the house,” he cried excitedly, “and the others have gone down to them; I’m sure they’ll be killed – I told them not to go, but they would. Let’s go and hide under a bed somewhere. Oh! oh, what will become of us?”
“Don’t be such a coward,” I cried, hurrying down stairs, while the poor little Rhymester, afraid to be left alone upstairs, tremblingly followed.
Sure enough there was a sound of struggling going on, and voices raised in loud dispute.
“Oh, that story won’t do for me,” I heard the Doctor-in-Law exclaim.
“But I tell yez, sor,” chimed in another strange voice, “I waz only going to – ”
“Never mind what you were going to do, give up the sack,” said the Doctor-in-Law.
Then there were sounds of struggling, and amidst the confusion a voice saying:
“Hold him down! Sit on him! That’s right! Now for the sack.”
And, bursting the door open, a curious sight met my eyes. A poor sweep lay flat upon the floor, with the Wallypug sitting upon him, and One-and-Nine keeping guard; while the Doctor-in-Law and A. Fish, Esq., examined his bag of soot in the corner. The poor little Rhymester summoned up sufficient courage to peep in at the doorway, and stood there making a piteous picture, with his white face and trembling limbs.
“Whatever is the matter,” I inquired as soon as I entered.
“We’ve caught him!” exclaimed his Majesty, complacently wriggling his toes about.
“But what’s he been doing,” I asked.
“Av ye plaze, sor,” groaned the man, panting beneath the Wallypug’s weight, “I have been doing nothing at all, at all. I waz just a-finishin’ me warrak of swapin’ the chimneys, wen one ov the ould gintleman came up an’ poked me in the nose with a sthick, and the other ould gintleman knocked me over and sthole me bag, while the soger hild me down till the other gintleman sat on me – it’s among a lot of murtherin’ thaves I’ve got entoirely, savin’ yer presince, sor.”
“The man is a burglar,” declared the Doctor-in-Law emphatically. “I happened to hear a very suspicious noise down here, and calling to the others, rushed down just in time to catch this man making off with a bag of things. I think he was trying to escape up the chimney, for his head was half-way up when we entered, and this bag, which evidently contains plunder of some kind, is covered with soot too.”