liquor, for the purpose of bribery and corruption, to a fierce-looking gentleman in a tremendous cocked-hat, with a sword by his side and a formidable moustache under his nose, appears undignified and absurd. This rumour, therefore, is probably mere scandal. I know that Mr. Winskip is in constant fear of losing his licence. After eleven o’clock, all houses of public entertainment are sternly closed, and Mr. Winskip is in mortal terror when some gentleman, who has imbibed liquor enough to make him noisy, insists, after the legal hour of shutting up, on favouring the company with “The Flag that’s braved a thousand years,” “I’m a Foglander,” or some other anti-Crapaudian ditty of an uproarious character. Sometimes a compromise is effected, and the singer goes through the performance in a hoarse whisper, while Mr. Winskip keeps glancing nervously through the window.
Mr. Winskip attributes this excessive activity on the part of the police to his Fogland origin, and hints gloomily that they would not be down upon him so, but that the entente cordiale between Cossikin the Third and Her Foglandic Majesty is in a shaky condition. Indeed, it seems to be the fashion in Winskip’s parlour to abuse Crapaudy. There is not often a Crapaudian present; but when there is, he is apt to get terribly roasted. Covert allusions are made to Waterblue, and other famous victories gained by the Foglanders over his countrymen, and the Crapaudian is naturally inclined to get angry.
Mrs. Winskip is a dolorous personage, afflicted with perennial neuralgia, who is perpetually regretting the days when she lived in the Sledgeware Road, and abusing the people and institutions of Crapaudy. As for the Cigognards, she asserts that they are, one and all, a set of thieves. I have certainly heard that some of the tradespeople have an ugly knack of misdating bills, and sending them in a second time after payment has been made; but are not such things done at all watering-places? Are the people of Snargate, Wethersgate, Grover, Shinington, and Skirthing immaculate in this respect? I humbly think not.
But I should be sorry if all the inhabitants of Fogland resident in Cigogne were like those I have described. I have only picked out a few peculiar specimens. They are not to be taken as samples of the bulk. There are plenty of Foglanders who, while retaining their prejudices for what is good in their own country, can allow that some things are managed better in Crapaudy.
For instance, it is not necessary in Lutetia, the gay metropolis of Crapaudy, if you are going to an evening party and mean to walk home, to wear a wash-leather collar with spikes outside round your neck, to carry a Spanish knife up your coat-sleeve, a revolver in your breast-pocket, and a loaded “neddy” in your hand. I read in the columns of the “Daily Jupiter” that it is considered advisable to do so in Troynovant. Again, in Cigogne you seldom see drunken people staggering about the quays at night. If you do, the bemuddled individual is probably a Foglander. I do not say the Cigognards never get tipsy, but they contrive to do it quietly at home. Then an intelligent Foglander sometimes regrets, while gazing at the snow-white caps, short petticoats, and stout shoes of the women of the working order, that the corresponding class in his own country possesses no characteristic costume. In Fogland even the street-beggar presents in her dress a shabby, battered resemblance to a duchess.
Talking of the women, they are in Crapaudy what a citizen of Lincolnia would term “a great institution.” They appear to manage everything. Go out early in the morning, up those steep streets (compared with which Cockburn Hill is a mere joke) where the fishing-nets hang festooned across from the upper stories, and you will meet women in streams, doing their marketing. Except an occasional costermonger with a donkey (and oftener than not, as Paddy would say, he is a woman), there is not a man to be seen. The question naturally arises, Where are the husbands? Resident Foglanders tell us they are scrubbing the floors, sweeping out the dirt and placing it in a little heap in front of the doors; nay, it is even whispered, they are washing and dressing the children. Go through the street formerly named Crown Street, but lately re-christened Cossikin Street, after the great little man before mentioned, and glance into any of the shops between the hours of eight and ten p.m. This is the street where most of the establishments patronised by the Foglanders are situated. Well, what do you see? In every shop—women. Women attending on the customers, women seated in the little recess at the back, making up their books. Again the question recurs, Where are the men? It is supposed that, having done the daily task which is suited to their infantine capacities, they are permitted, like good boys, to go and relax their small minds over a game at dominoes or billiards in the cafés. The superior intellect remains at home to balance the accounts, and estimate the net profits of the day.
Men of Fogland! be warned in time. I lately read in one of your papers, that a lady was about to be admitted to practise as a surgeon. This is what alarmists would call “the small end of the wedge.” Recollect, you have already got women acting as telegraph clerks. A step further, and your independence will be sacrificed for ever. You will be forced to surrender the purse, the symbol of sovereignty, into the hands of your wife or your sister, and be kindly permitted, in exchange, to lounge away half your day while the ladies do the work.
To speak seriously, in this matter I cannot praise the customs of Crapaudy. When I see the gaunt, sunburnt, weird-looking women doing spade-work, or carrying heavy burdens in the field, I think of Fogland, where the same persons would be busy getting the husband’s dinner ready, or nursing baby at the cottage-door. In Crapaudy I have seen a great, lumbering barge pulled by a woman, while half-a-dozen hulking fellows sat idly smoking their pipes in the stern-sheets. Women of Fogland! if you know when you are well off, stay as you are. Take care of the house and of the children, and let us men battle with the outer world. Do not listen to the specious advantages offered by increased employment and comparative independence. Your mis-