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Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 107, July 28th 1894
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Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 107, July 28th 1894 - F. C. (Francis Cowley) Burnand
The Project Gutenberg EBook of Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 107,
July 28th 1894, by Various
This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with
almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or
re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included
with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license
Title: Punch, or the London Charivari, Vol. 107, July 28th 1894
Author: Various
Editor: Sir Francis Burnand
Release Date: August 15, 2012 [EBook #40509]
Language: English
*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PUNCH, OR THE LONDON ***
Produced by Malcolm Farmer, Ernest Schaal, and the Online
Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net
PUNCH,
OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.
Vol. 107.
July 28, 1894.
LORD ORMONT'S MATE AND MATEY'S AMINTA.
By G***GE M*R*D*TH.
Volume I.
This was a school. Small wonder if the boys, doubly sensitive under a supercilious head-master of laughter-moving invention, poised for a moment on the to and fro of a needless knockabout jig-face with chin and mouth all a-pucker for the inquisitive contest. The stout are candid puff-balls blowing in an open sea of purposeless panting, hard to stir into an elephantine surging from arm-chairs; and these are for frock-coats, and they can wear watch-chains. So these boys understood it. Murat here, Murat there, Murat everywhere, with Shalders a-burst at the small end of a trumpet, cheeks rounded to the full note of an usher's eulogy, like a roar and no mistake, arduous in the moment, throbbing beneath a schoolmaster's threadbare waistcoat, a heart all dandelions to the plucker, yellow on top with white shifts for feather-fringe; or a daisy, transferring petulance on a bath-chair wheezing and groaning—on the swing for the capture of a fare—or shall it be a fair, that too a wheeze permitted to propriety hoist on a flaxy, grinning chub. This was Shalders.
Lady Charlotte Eglett appeared. Hers was the brother, the Lord Ormont we know, a general of cavalry not a doubt, all sabretache, spurs and plumes, dashing away into a Hindoo desert like the soldier he is, a born man sword in fist. She wrote, Come to me. He is said to be married.
He spoke to her. My father was a soldier.
He too?
she interposed.
Their eyes clashed.
You are the tutor for me,
she added.
For your grandson,
corrected he.
It was a bargain. They struck it. She glanced right and left, showing the town-bred tutor her hedges at the canter along the main road of her scheme.
His admiration of the cavalry-brother rose to a fever-point. Not good with the pen, Lady Charlotte opined; hard to beat at a sword-thrust, thought Matey. Be his pen-holder,
put in the lady. "I would, said he, smiling again. She split sides, convulsed in a take-offish murmur, a roll here, a roll there, rib-tickling with eyes goggling on the forefront of a sentence all rags, tags, and splutters like a jerry-builder gaping at a waste land pegged out in plots, foundations on the dig, and auctioneer prowling hither thither, hammer ready for the
gone" which shall spin a nobody's land into a somebody's money passing over counter or otherwise pocket to pocket, full to empty or almost empty, with a mowling choke-spark of a batter-foot all quills for the bean-feast. So they understood it.
Matey then was Lord Ormont's secretary. A sad dog his Lordship; all the women on bended knees to his glory. Who shall own him? What cares he so it be a petticoat? For women go the helter-skelter
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