More Bab Ballads

W. S. Gilbert

More Bab Ballads

Ballad: Mister William

Oh, listen to the tale of MISTER WILLIAM, if you please,Whom naughty, naughty judges sent away beyond the seas.He forged a party’s will, which caused anxiety and strife,Resulting in his getting penal servitude for life.He was a kindly goodly man, and naturally prone,Instead of taking others’ gold, to give away his own.But he had heard of Vice, and longed for only once to strike—To plan one little wickedness—to see what it was like.He argued with himself, and said, “A spotless man am I;I can’t be more respectable, however hard I try!For six and thirty years I’ve always been as good as gold,And now for half an hour I’ll plan infamy untold!“A baby who is wicked at the early age of one,And then reforms—and dies at thirty-six a spotless son,Is never, never saddled with his babyhood’s defect,But earns from worthy men consideration and respect.“So one who never revelled in discreditable tricksUntil he reached the comfortable age of thirty-six,May then for half an hour perpetrate a deed of shame,Without incurring permanent disgrace, or even blame.“That babies don’t commit such crimes as forgery is true,But little sins develop, if you leave ’em to accrue;And he who shuns all vices as successive seasons roll,Should reap at length the benefit of so much self-control.“The common sin of babyhood—objecting to be drest—If you leave it to accumulate at compound interest,For anything you know, may represent, if you’re alive,A burglary or murder at the age of thirty-five.“Still, I wouldn’t take advantage of this fact, but be contentWith some pardonable folly—it’s a mere experiment.The greater the temptation to go wrong, the less the sin;So with something that’s particularly tempting I’ll begin.“I would not steal a penny, for my income’s very fair—I do not want a penny—I have pennies and to spare—And if I stole a penny from a money-bag or till,The sin would be enormous—the temptation being nil.“But if I broke asunder all such pettifogging bounds,And forged a party’s Will for (say) Five Hundred Thousand Pounds,With such an irresistible temptation to a haul,Of course the sin must be infinitesimally small.“There’s WILSON who is dying—he has wealth from Stock and rent—If I divert his riches from their natural descent,I’m placed in a position to indulge each little whim.”So he diverted them—and they, in turn, diverted him.Unfortunately, though, by some unpardonable flaw,Temptation isn’t recognized by Britain’s Common Law;Men found him out by some peculiarity of touch,And WILLIAM got a “lifer,” which annoyed him very much.For, ah! he never reconciled himself to life in gaol,He fretted and he pined, and grew dispirited and pale;He was numbered like a cabman, too, which told upon him soThat his spirits, once so buoyant, grew uncomfortably low.And sympathetic gaolers would remark, “It’s very true,He ain’t been brought up common, like the likes of me and you.”So they took him into hospital, and gave him mutton chops,And chocolate, and arrowroot, and buns, and malt and hops.Kind Clergymen, besides, grew interested in his fate,Affected by the details of his pitiable state.They waited on the Secretary, somewhere in Whitehall,Who said he would receive them any day they liked to call.“Consider, sir, the hardship of this interesting case:A prison life brings with it something very like disgrace;It’s telling on young WILLIAM, who’s reduced to skin and bone—Remember he’s a gentleman, with money of his own.“He had an ample income, and of course he stands in needOf sherry with his dinner, and his customary weed;No delicacies now can pass his gentlemanly lips—He misses his sea-bathing and his continental trips.“He says the other prisoners are commonplace and rude;He says he cannot relish uncongenial prison food.When quite a boy they taught him to distinguish Good from Bad,And other educational advantages he’s had.“A burglar or garotter, or, indeed, a common thiefIs very glad to batten on potatoes and on beef,Or anything, in short, that prison kitchens can afford,—A cut above the diet in a common workhouse ward.“But beef and mutton-broth don’t seem to suit our WILLIAM’S whim,A boon to other prisoners—a punishment to him.It never was intended that the discipline of gaolShould dash a convict’s spirits, sir, or make him thin or pale.”“Good Gracious Me!” that sympathetic Secretary cried,“Suppose in prison fetters MISTER WILLIAM should have died!Dear me, of course!  Imprisonment for Life his sentence saith:I’m very glad you mentioned it—it might have been For Death!“Release him with a ticket—he’ll be better then, no doubt,And tell him I apologize.”  So MISTER WILLIAM’S out.I hope he will be careful in his manuscripts, I’m sure,And not begin experimentalizing any more.

Ballad: The Bumboat Woman’s Story

I’m old, my dears, and shrivelled with age, and work, and grief,My eyes are gone, and my teeth have been drawn by Time, the Thief!For terrible sights I’ve seen, and dangers great I’ve run—I’m nearly seventy now, and my work is almost done!Ah!  I’ve been young in my time, and I’ve played the deuce with men!I’m speaking of ten years past—I was barely sixty then:My cheeks were mellow and soft, and my eyes were large and sweet,POLL PINEAPPLE’S eyes were the standing toast of the Royal Fleet!A bumboat woman was I, and I faithfully served the shipsWith apples and cakes, and fowls, and beer, and halfpenny dips,And beef for the generous mess, where the officers dine at nights,And fine fresh peppermint drops for the rollicking midshipmites.Of all the kind commanders who anchored in Portsmouth Bay,By far the sweetest of all was kind LIEUTENANT BELAYE.’LIEUTENANT BELAYE commanded the gunboat Hot Cross Bun,She was seven and thirty feet in length, and she carried a gun.With a laudable view of enhancing his country’s naval pride,When people inquired her size, LIEUTENANT BELAYE replied,“Oh, my ship, my ship is the first of the Hundred and Seventy-ones!”Which meant her tonnage, but people imagined it meant her guns.Whenever I went on board he would beckon me down below,“Come down, Little Buttercup, come” (for he loved to call me so),And he’d tell of the fights at sea in which he’d taken a part,And so LIEUTENANT BELAYE won poor POLL PINEAPPLE’S heart!But at length his orders came, and he said one day, said he,“I’m ordered to sail with the Hot Cross Bun to the German Sea.”And the Portsmouth maidens wept when they learnt the evil day,For every Portsmouth maid loved good LIEUTENANT BELAYE.And I went to a back back street, with plenty of cheap cheap shops,And I bought an oilskin hat and a second-hand suit of slops,And I went to LIEUTENANT BELAYE (and he never suspected me!)And I entered myself as a chap as wanted to go to sea.We sailed that afternoon at the mystic hour of one,—Remarkably nice young men were the crew of the Hot Cross Bun,I’m sorry to say that I’ve heard that sailors sometimes swear,But I never yet heard a Bun say anything wrong, I declare.When Jack Tars meet, they meet with a “Messmate, ho!  What cheer?”But here, on the Hot Cross Bun, it was “How do you do, my dear?”When Jack Tars growl, I believe they growl with a big big D-But the strongest oath of the Hot Cross Buns was a mild “Dear me!”Yet, though they were all well-bred, you could scarcely call them slick:Whenever a sea was on, they were all extremely sick;And whenever the weather was calm, and the wind was light and fair,They spent more time than a sailor should on his back back hair.They certainly shivered and shook when ordered aloft to run,And they screamed when LIEUTENANT BELAYE discharged his only gun.And as he was proud of his gun—such pride is hardly wrong—The Lieutenant was blazing away at intervals all day long.They all agreed very well, though at times you heard it saidThat BILL had a way of his own of making his lips look red—That JOE looked quite his age—or somebody might declareThat BARNACLE’S long pig-tail was never his own own hair.BELAYE would admit that his men were of no great use to him,“But, then,” he would say, “there is little to do on a gunboat trimI can hand, and reef, and steer, and fire my big gun too—And it is such a treat to sail with a gentle well-bred crew.”I saw him every day.  How the happy moments sped!Reef topsails!  Make all taut!  There’s dirty weather ahead!(I do not mean that tempests threatened the Hot Cross Bun:In that case, I don’t know whatever we should have done!)After a fortnight’s cruise, we put into port one day,And off on leave for a week went kind LIEUTENANT BELAYE,And after a long long week had passed (and it seemed like a life),LIEUTENANT BELAYE returned to his ship with a fair young wife!He up, and he says, says he, “O crew of the Hot Cross Bun,Here is the wife of my heart, for the Church has made us one!”And as he uttered the word, the crew went out of their wits,And all fell down in so many separate fainting-fits.And then their hair came down, or off, as the case might be,And lo! the rest of the crew were simple girls, like me,Who all had fled from their homes in a sailor’s blue array,To follow the shifting fate of kind LIEUTENANT BELAYE.* * * * * * * *It’s strange to think that I should ever have loved young men,But I’m speaking of ten years past—I was barely sixty then,And now my cheeks are furrowed with grief and age, I trow!And poor POLL PINEAPPLE’S eyes have lost their lustre now!

Ballad: The Two Ogres

Good children, list, if you’re inclined,And wicked children too—This pretty ballad is designedEspecially for you.Two ogres dwelt in Wickham Wold—Each traits distinctive had:The younger was as good as gold,The elder was as bad.A wicked, disobedient sonWas JAMES M’ALPINE, andA contrast to the elder one,Good APPLEBODY BLAND.M’ALPINE—brutes like him are few—In greediness delights,A melancholy victim toUnchastened appetites.Good, well-bred children every dayHe ravenously ate,—All boys were fish who found their wayInto M’ALPINE’S net:Boys whose good breeding is innate,Whose sums are always right;And boys who don’t expostulateWhen sent to bed at night;And kindly boys who never searchThe nests of birds of song;And serious boys for whom, in church,No sermon is too long.Contrast with JAMES’S greedy hasteAnd comprehensive hand,The nice discriminating tasteOf APPLEBODY BLAND.BLAND only eats bad boys, who swear—Who can behave, but don’t—Disgraceful lads who say “don’t care,”And “shan’t,” and “can’t,” and “won’t.”Who wet their shoes and learn to box,And say what isn’t true,Who bite their nails and jam their frocks,And make long noses too;Who kick a nurse’s aged shin,And sit in sulky mopes;And boys who twirl poor kittens inDistracting zoëtropes.But JAMES, when he was quite a youth,Had often been to school,And though so bad, to tell the truth,He wasn’t quite a fool.At logic few with him could vie;To his peculiar sectHe could propose a fallacyWith singular effect.So, when his Mentors said, “Expound—Why eat good children—why?”Upon his Mentors he would roundWith this absurd reply:“I have been taught to love the good—The pure—the unalloyed—And wicked boys, I’ve understood,I always should avoid.“Why do I eat good children—why?Because I love them so!”(But this was empty sophistry,As your Papa can show.)Now, though the learning of his friendsWas truly not immense,They had a way of fitting endsBy rule of common sense.“Away, away!” his Mentors cried,“Thou uncongenial pest!A quirk’s a thing we can’t abide,A quibble we detest!“A fallacy in your replyOur intellect descries,Although we don’t pretend to spyExactly where it lies.“In misery and penal woesMust end a glutton’s joys;And learn how ogres punish thoseWho dare to eat good boys.“Secured by fetter, cramp, and chain,And gagged securely—so—You shall be placed in Drury Lane,Where only good lads go.“Surrounded there by virtuous boys,You’ll suffer torture wusThan that which constantly annoysDisgraceful TANTALUS.(“If you would learn the woes that vexPoor TANTALUS, down there,Pray borrow of Papa an ex-Purgated LEMPRIERE.)“But as for BLAND who, as it seems,Eats only naughty boys,We’ve planned a recompense that teemsWith gastronomic joys.“Where wicked youths in crowds are stowedHe shall unquestioned rule,And have the run of Hackney RoadReformatory School!”

Ballad: Little Oliver

EARL JOYCE he was a kind old partyWhom nothing ever could put out,Though eighty-two, he still was hearty,Excepting as regarded gout.He had one unexampled daughter,The LADY MINNIE-HAHA JOYCE,Fair MINNIE-HAHA, “Laughing Water,”So called from her melodious voice.By Nature planned for lover-capture,Her beauty every heart assailed;The good old nobleman with raptureObserved how widely she prevailedAloof from all the lordly flockingsOf titled swells who worshipped her,There stood, in pumps and cotton stockings,One humble lover—OLIVER.He was no peer by Fortune petted,His name recalled no bygone age;He was no lordling coronetted—Alas! he was a simple page!With vain appeals he never bored her,But stood in silent sorrow by—He knew how fondly he adored her,And knew, alas! how hopelessly!Well grounded by a village tutorIn languages alive and past,He’d say unto himself, “Knee-suitor,Oh, do not go beyond your last!”But though his name could boast no handle,He could not every hope resign;As moths will hover round a candle,So hovered he about her shrine.The brilliant candle dazed the moth well:One day she sang to her PapaThe air that MARIE sings with BOTHWELLIn NEIDERMEYER’S opera.(Therein a stable boy, it’s stated,Devoutly loved a noble dame,Who ardently reciprocatedHis rather injudicious flame.)And then, before the piano closing(He listened coyly at the door),She sang a song of her composing—I give one verse from half a score:BALLADWhy, pretty page, art ever sighing?Is sorrow in thy heartlet lying?Come, set a-ringingThy laugh entrancing,And ever singingAnd ever dancing.Ever singing, Tra! la! la!Ever dancing, Tra! la! la!Ever singing, ever dancing,Ever singing, Tra! la! la!He skipped for joy like little muttons,He danced like Esmeralda’s kid.(She did not mean a boy in buttons,Although he fancied that she did.)Poor lad! convinced he thus would win her,He wore out many pairs of soles;He danced when taking down the dinner—He danced when bringing up the coals.He danced and sang (however laden)With his incessant “Tra! la! la!”Which much surprised the noble maiden,And puzzled even her Papa.He nourished now his flame and fanned it,He even danced at work below.The upper servants wouldn’t stand it,And BOWLES the butler told him so.At length on impulse acting blindly,His love he laid completely bare;The gentle Earl received him kindlyAnd told the lad to take a chair.“Oh, sir,” the suitor uttered sadly,“Don’t give your indignation vent;I fear you think I’m acting madly,Perhaps you think me insolent?”The kindly Earl repelled the notion;His noble bosom heaved a sigh,His fingers trembled with emotion,A tear stood in his mild blue eye:For, oh! the scene recalled too plainlyThe half-forgotten time when he,A boy of nine, had worshipped vainlyA governess of forty-three!“My boy,” he said, in tone consoling,“Give up this idle fancy—do—The song you heard my daughter trollingDid not, indeed, refer to you.“I feel for you, poor boy, acutely;I would not wish to give you pain;Your pangs I estimate minutely,—I, too, have loved, and loved in vain.“But still your humble rank and stationFor MINNIE surely are not meet”—He said much more in conversationWhich it were needless to repeat.Now I’m prepared to bet a guinea,Were this a mere dramatic case,The page would have eloped with MINNIE,But, no—he only left his place.The simple Truth is my detective,With me Sensation can’t abide;The Likely beats the mere Effective,And Nature is my only guide.

Ballad: Pasha Bailey Ben

A proud Pasha was BAILEY BEN,His wives were three, his tails were ten;His form was dignified, but stout,Men called him “Little Roundabout.”

His Importance

Pale Pilgrims came from o’er the seaTo wait on PASHA BAILEY B.,All bearing presents in a crowd,For B. was poor as well as proud.

His Presents

They brought him onions strung on ropes,And cold boiled beef, and telescopes,And balls of string, and shrimps, and guns,And chops, and tacks, and hats, and buns.

More of them

They brought him white kid gloves, and pails,And candlesticks, and potted quails,And capstan-bars, and scales and weights,And ornaments for empty grates.

Why I mention these

My tale is not of these—oh no!I only mention them to showThe divers gifts that divers menBrought o’er the sea to BAILEY BEN.

His Confidant

A confidant had BAILEY B.,A gay Mongolian dog was he;I am not good at Turkish names,And so I call him SIMPLE JAMES.

His Confidant’s Countenance

A dreadful legend you might traceIn SIMPLE JAMES’S honest face,For there you read, in Nature’s print,“A Scoundrel of the Deepest Tint.”

His Character

A deed of blood, or fire, or flames,Was meat and drink to SIMPLE JAMES:To hide his guilt he did not plan,But owned himself a bad young man.

The Author to his Reader

And why on earth good BAILEY BEN(The wisest, noblest, best of men)Made SIMPLE JAMES his right-hand manIs quite beyond my mental span.

The same, continued

But there—enough of gruesome deeds!My heart, in thinking of them, bleeds;And so let SIMPLE JAMES take wing,—’Tis not of him I’m going to sing.

The Pasha’s Clerk

Good PASHA BAILEY kept a clerk(For BAILEY only made his mark),His name was MATTHEW WYCOMBE COO,A man of nearly forty-two.

His Accomplishments

No person that I ever knewCould “yödel” half as well as COO,And Highlanders exclaimed, “Eh, weel!”When COO began to dance a reel.

His Kindness to the Pasha’s Wives

He used to dance and sing and playIn such an unaffected way,He cheered the unexciting livesOf PASHA BAILEY’S lovely wives.

The Author to his Reader

But why should I encumber youWith histories of MATTHEW COO?Let MATTHEW COO at once take wing,—’Tis not of COO I’m going to sing.

The Author’s Muse

Let me recall my wandering Muse;She shall be steady if I choose—She roves, instead of helping meTo tell the deeds of BAILEY B.

The Pasha’s Visitor

One morning knocked, at half-past eight,A tall Red Indian at his gate.In Turkey, as you’re p’raps aware,Red Indians are extremely rare.

The Visitor’s Outfit

Mocassins decked his graceful legs,His eyes were black, and round as eggs,And on his neck, instead of beads,Hung several Catawampous seeds.

What the Visitor said

“Ho, ho!” he said, “thou pale-faced one,Poor offspring of an Eastern sun,You’ve never seen the Red Man skipUpon the banks of Mississip!”

The Author’s Moderation

To say that BAILEY oped his eyesWould feebly paint his great surprise—To say it almost made him dieWould be to paint it much too high.

The Author to his Reader

But why should I ransack my headTo tell you all that Indian said;We’ll let the Indian man take wing,—’Tis not of him I’m going to sing.

The Reader to the Author

Come, come, I say, that’s quite enoughOf this absurd disjointed stuff;Now let’s get on to that affairAbout LIEUTENANT-COLONEL FLARE.

Ballad: Lieutenant-Colonel Flare

The earth has armies plenty,And semi-warlike bands,I dare say there are twentyIn European lands;But, oh! in no directionYou’d find one to compareIn brotherly affectionWith that of COLONEL FLARE.His soldiers might be ratedAs military Pearls.As unsophisticatedAs pretty little girls!They never smoked or ratted,Or talked of Sues or Polls;The Sergeant-Major tatted,The others nursed their dolls.He spent his days in teachingThese truly solemn facts;There’s little use in preaching,Or circulating tracts.(The vainest plan inventedFor stifling other creeds,Unless it’s supplementedWith charitable deeds.)He taught his soldiers kindlyTo give at Hunger’s call:“Oh, better far give blindly,Than never give at all!Though sympathy be kindledBy Imposition’s game,Oh, better far be swindledThan smother up its flame!”His means were far from ampleFor pleasure or for dress,Yet note this bright exampleOf single-heartedness:Though ranking as a Colonel,His pay was but a groat,While their reward diurnalWas—each a five-pound note.Moreover,—this evincesHis kindness, you’ll allow,—He fed them all like princes,And lived himself on cow.He set them all regalingOn curious wines, and dear,While he would sit pale-ale-ing,Or quaffing ginger-beer.Then at his instigation(A pretty fancy this)Their daily pay and rationHe’d take in change for his;They brought it to him weekly,And he without a groan,Would take it from them meeklyAnd give them all his own!Though not exactly knightedAs knights, of course, should be,Yet no one so delightedIn harmless chivalry.If peasant girl or ladyeBeneath misfortunes sank,Whate’er distinctions made he,They were not those of rank.No maiden young and comelyWho wanted good advice(However poor or homely)Need ask him for it twice.He’d wipe away the blindnessThat comes of teary dew;His sympathetic kindnessNo sort of limit knew.He always hated dealingWith men who schemed or planned;A person harsh—unfeeling—The Colonel could not stand.He hated cold, suspecting,Official men in blue,Who pass their lives detectingThe crimes that others do.For men who’d shoot a sparrow,Or immolate a wormBeneath a farmer’s harrow,He could not find a term.Humanely, ay, and knightlyHe dealt with such an one;He took and tied him tightly,And blew him from a gun.The earth has armies plenty,And semi-warlike bands,I’m certain there are twentyIn European lands;But, oh! in no directionYou’d find one to compareIn brotherly affectionWith that of COLONEL FLARE.

Ballad: Lost Mr. Blake

MR. BLAKE was a regular out-and-out hardened sinner,Who was quite out of the pale of Christianity, so to speak,He was in the habit of smoking a long pipe and drinking a glass of grog on a Sunday after dinner,And seldom thought of going to church more than twice or—if Good Friday or Christmas Day happened to come in it—three times a week.He was quite indifferent as to the particular kinds of dressesThat the clergyman wore at church where he used to go to pray,And whatever he did in the way of relieving a chap’s distresses,He always did in a nasty, sneaking, underhanded, hole-and-corner sort of way.I have known him indulge in profane, ungentlemanly emphatics,When the Protestant Church has been divided on the subject of the proper width of a chasuble’s hem;I have even known him to sneer at albs—and as for dalmatics,Words can’t convey an idea of the contempt he expressed for them.He didn’t believe in persons who, not being well off themselves, are obliged to confine their charitable exertions to collecting money from wealthier people,And looked upon individuals of the former class as ecclesiastical hawks;He used to say that he would no more think of interfering with his priest’s robes than with his church or his steeple,And that he did not consider his soul imperilled because somebody over whom he had no influence whatever, chose to dress himself up like an exaggerated GUY FAWKES.This shocking old vagabond was so unutterably shamelessThat he actually went a-courting a very respectable and pious middle-aged sister, by the name of BIGGS.She was a rather attractive widow, whose life as such had always been particularly blameless;Her first husband had left her a secure but moderate competence, owing to some fortunate speculations in the matter of figs.She was an excellent person in every way—and won the respect even of MRS. GRUNDY,She was a good housewife, too, and wouldn’t have wasted a penny if she had owned the Koh-i-noor.She was just as strict as he was lax in her observance of Sunday,And being a good economist, and charitable besides, she took all the bones and cold potatoes and broken pie-crusts and candle-ends (when she had quite done with them), and made them into an excellent soup for the deserving poor.I am sorry to say that she rather took to BLAKE—that outcast of society,And when respectable brothers who were fond of her began to look dubious and to cough,She would say, “Oh, my friends, it’s because I hope to bring this poor benighted soul back to virtue and propriety,And besides, the poor benighted soul, with all his faults, was uncommonly well off.And when MR. BLAKE’S dissipated friends called his attention to the frown or the pout of her,Whenever he did anything which appeared to her to savour of an unmentionable place,He would say that “she would be a very decent old girl when all that nonsense was knocked out of her,”And his method of knocking it out of her is one that covered him with disgrace.She was fond of going to church services four times every Sunday, and, four or five times in the week, and never seemed to pall of them,So he hunted out all the churches within a convenient distance that had services at different hours, so to speak;And when he had married her he positively insisted upon their going to all of them,So they contrived to do about twelve churches every Sunday, and, if they had luck, from twenty-two to twenty-three in the course of the week.She was fond of dropping his sovereigns ostentatiously into the plate, and she liked to see them stand out rather conspicuously against the commonplace half-crowns and shillings,So he took her to all the charity sermons, and if by any extraordinary chance there wasn’t a charity sermon anywhere, he would drop a couple of sovereigns (one for him and one for her) into the poor-box at the door;And as he always deducted the sums thus given in charity from the housekeeping money, and the money he allowed her for her bonnets and frillings,She soon began to find that even charity, if you allow it to interfere with your personal luxuries, becomes an intolerable bore.On Sundays she was always melancholy and anything but good society,For that day in her household was a day of sighings and sobbings and wringing of hands and shaking of heads:She wouldn’t hear of a button being sewn on a glove, because it was a work neither of necessity nor of piety,And strictly prohibited her servants from amusing themselves, or indeed doing anything at all except dusting the drawing-rooms, cleaning the boots and shoes, cooking the parlour dinner, waiting generally on the family, and making the beds.But BLAKE even went further than that, and said that people should do their own works of necessity, and not delegate them to persons in a menial situation,So he wouldn’t allow his servants to do so much as even answer a bell.Here he is making his wife carry up the water for her bath to the second floor, much against her inclination,—And why in the world the gentleman who illustrates these ballads has put him in a cocked hat is more than I can tell.After about three months of this sort of thing, taking the smooth with the rough of it,(Blacking her own boots and peeling her own potatoes was not her notion of connubial bliss),MRS. BLAKE began to find that she had pretty nearly had enough of it,And came, in course of time, to think that BLAKE’S own original line of conduct wasn’t so much amiss.And now that wicked person—that detestable sinner (“BELIAL BLAKE” his friends and well-wishers call him for his atrocities),And his poor deluded victim, whom all her Christian brothers dislike and pity so,Go to the parish church only on Sunday morning and afternoon and occasionally on a week-day, and spend their evenings in connubial fondlings and affectionate reciprocities,And I should like to know where in the world (or rather, out of it) they expect to go!