Before this portal I stop with an emotion of respectful awe. It is here that the “Cigogne Observer” is published. I know, but shall not divulge, the name of the editor. His paper is published in Foglandic, fer the benefit of the Foglanders resident in Cigogne. These worthy folks, besides reading the “Daily Jupiter,” like to hear a little innocent gossip concerning their fellow-townsmen and brother exiles. This they get in the “Observer.” I cannot say that the “Observer” is great in leading articles. Fogland politics are sufficiently discussed in the “Jupiter;” Crapaudian politics are tabooed. If the “Observer” were to talk as freely about Cossikin Tertius as people do over in free-spoken Fogland, he would speedily find his office closed, and himself on board the Hoaxstone steamer.
Observe upon this highly-polished brass-plate the legend, “Monsieur Pipon, teacher of the Crapaudian language.” I pause upon the threshold, for the purpose of informing you that this man is a traitor to his native land. All other Foglanders glory in their origin, and would on no account be mistaken for Crapaudians. But Monsieur Pipon confessed to me, after imbibing several glasses of a liqueur called “Water of Life,” that he was a disguised Foglander, that his real name was Pippin, and that his youthful days were passed in Chislington. “I changed my name, sir,” he said, “because my countrymen won’t believe that a Foglander can teach Crapaudian.” It is only due to Monsieur Pipon to state that he is one of the most skilful teachers in the town, for he knows precisely all the pitfalls and stumbling-blocks which beset a Fogland learner. The natives, who suck in Crapaudian with their infantine pap, are useless in this respect.
On half-holiday Thursdays you will meet numbers of young ladies’ schools promenading in the usual duality-fashion, and looking, in the autumnal season, somewhat pinched and blue as they face the keen north-easterly wind round the citadel. Let us suppose that it is two days later, or Saturday, and, if you will accept my guidance, you shall see some of the Fogland youth and beauty to greater advantage.
We knock at the door of Monsieur Trenise, and, passing up a covered passage through a garden that must look very pretty in the summer time, are ushered into the presence of the professor himself. He is a nice, fresh-looking, elderly gentleman, who glides about with the utmost grace. Arming himself with the insignia of his profession—the fiddle and the bow—he bids us enter a spacious saloon, wherein, besides a number of sympathising and admiring parents, brothers, and sisters, ranged on seats along the walls, I count fifty-nine young ladies, all arrayed in fresh, pretty morning dresses, “doing their steps.” They vary in age from womanly eighteen, blushing at the possibility of a respectful admirer on the side benches, to romping little dots of four, who look upon the whole affair as a piece of capital fun. Presently the exercises are concluded; the band, consisting of a violin and a pianoforte, take their seats, and partners are selected for a quadrille. While they are taking their places, I wish to call your attention to the purest specimen of moral courage it has ever been my lot to encounter. Besides the fifty-nine young ladies, there is a sixtieth person standing up to dance. That person is of the male sex, a Foglander, and stands about five feet ten in his shoes. I am happy to see that he has got a partner, a young lady of eleven years; but don’t you pity that tall young gentleman when he comes to do the cavalier seul in the presence of that vast feminine assemblage? I regard him with respect and wonder. He is the Nelson of the ball-room.
The dancing now begins, and Monsieur Trenise glides about like a well-bred spectre. He soon grows enthusiastic, pats this young lady approvingly on the back, seizes that young lady sternly by the shoulders. Then we have the Polka, the Cellarius, the Imperial Quadrilles, the latter a graceful and admirable cross between the plain Quadrille and the Lancers. A fellow who has arrived at that age when late hours and cabs choked with crinoline have become a bore finds this a delightful entertainment. I sit and gossip with my friends on the benches, making sarcastic and complimentary observations regarding the dancers, and shall, at six o’clock, go home to our pleasant old-fashioned tea. I confess the sight of these thirty couples gyrating in the polka stirred my blood, and I proposed to my fair neighbour that we should stand up and dance. She declined, on the grounds that Monsieur Trenise’s wrath at such a violation of fundamental principles would be too awful to witness.
The band plays a grand march, and the academy disperses. It is time to go home. I pass the Cherry Tree on my way, and behold in the thickening shades of evening the portly form of Joe Batters, armed with the fire-shovel in the act of pursuing a cow. The hoarse sound of his “Why don’t you alley?” mingles with the ripple of the incoming tide on the beach. I believe those cows tend to prolong Joe’s life. Were he to sit continuously at his stove, imbibing Hollands and water, he would infallibly go off in an apoplexy. These cows act as a wholesome antiphlogistic. Night comes on apace. As I climb the heights the brilliant light on Greynose Promontory, the point of Crapaudian soil nearest to Fogland, bursts into view. Foglanders and Crapaudians, I wish you good-bye, and long may the entente cordiale exist between you!
“FAINT HEART NEVER WON FAIR LADYE.”
“What! stay’st thou now to prate and toy
When rebels fill the gate?
Now, by my faith! no bride am I
For such an ‘haggard’ mate![1]
“And by Saint George! since on thy cheek
A coward blush I spy
I’ll dress thee in my maiden’s robes,
And to the field will I!
“No love have I, thou craven knight,
For such as thou to spare,
For thou art false, and thus I pluck
Thy troth-gift from mine hair!
- ↑ A term in falconry signifying a worthless bird.
