PROFESSIONAL LOVE-LETTERS

I

From Mr. Norman Dormer, Architect and Surveyor, to Miss Caroline Tower.

My Precious,

Pity me who must stay and fret in London, while you are enjoying yourself at Broadstairs. How I long to be there, surveying the ocean by your side, and tracing your dear name on the sands! But fate and a father have placed a barrier between us. So I pace up and down before the old house in T———— Square, and look up at a certain dormitory on the second story—in no state of elevation you may be sure—and make plans for the future, and build castles in the air, and try to forget that my designs on your heart appear ridiculous to your papa, whose estimate of me I am aware is not in excess. For can I forget what he said that wet Saturday afternoon in the back drawing-room, when I tendered myself to him as a son-in-law, and the tender was not accepted? After telling him that it was the summit, the pinnacle of my ambition to win you as my wife, did he not answer that he considered I ought not to aspire to your hand until the statement of my pecuniary means (as he worded it) was more satisfactory, and, meanwhile, requested me to discontinue my pointed attentions? Never until you bid me. Only be firm, and the difficulties now in our way will but serve to cement us more closely together; only be true and I will wait patiently for that day which shall put the coping-stone to my happiness. I build upon every word, every look, every smile I can call to mind. You will write and assure me there is no foundation for the report of another and more fortunate competitor, but that I still fill the same niche in your affections I ever did? For, Caroline, were I to hear you were an "engaged" Tower, I could not survive the blow. I should stab myself with my compasses in the back office.

But away with such gloomy fears. Let me picture her to myself. How plumb she stands! How arch she looks! What a beam in her eye! What a graceful curve in her neck! What an exquisitely chiselled nose! What a brick of a girl altogether! I must stop in my specification, or you will think there is something wrong in my upper story, and not give credence to a word I say.

I have just been calling on your sister, and saw your little pet Poppy, who talked in her pretty Early English about "Tant Tarry." Aunt Sarah was there, staying the day, looking as mediæval as ever, and with her hair dressed in the usual Decorated style. She hinted that you were imperious, and that any man who married you must make up his mind (grim joke) to fetch and Carry at your bidding. And then you were so ambitious! The wiseacre! why, I will leave no stone unturned to get on in my profession if you will only be constant. I will be the architect of my own fortunes—your love the keystone of my prosperity. The columns of every newspaper shall record my success; every capital in Europe shall know my name. She did not unhinge me a bit, and the shafts of her ridicule fell harmless; although, she made an allusion to "dumpy" men, which I knew was levelled at me, and sneered at married life as very pretty for a time, but the stucco soon fell off. Poor Aunt Sarah! I left her sitting up quite perpendicular with that everlasting work which she is always herring-boning. And now, Carry, darling—oh, dear! I am wanted about something in our designs for the new Law Courts, and have only time to sign myself,

Your own, till Domesday, Norman.

II

From Mr. Alfred Pye, Professed Man Cook, to Miss Martha Browning.

What a stew I was in all Friday, when no letter came from my Patty! Everything went wrong. I made a hash of one of my entrées, and the chef, who guessed the cause of my confusion, roasted me so that at last I boiled over, and gave him rather a tart answer, for, as you know, I am at times a little too peppery. Thy sweet note, when it did arrive, made all right. I believe I was quite foolish, and went capering about with delight. And then I cooled down, and composed a new soufflé. So you see I do not fritter away all my time, whatever those malicious people who are so ready to carp at me may think.

You say you always like to know where I go in an evening. Well, I went to the Trotters last night, and Fanny played the accompaniment, and I sang—how it made me think of you!—"Good-bye, Sweetbread, good-bye!" (How absurd! Do you see what I have written instead of "Sweetheart"? All the force of habit. It will remind you of that night at Cookham, when we were the top couple in the supper quadrille, and I shouted, "Now, Side-dishes, begin!" and everybody roared except a certain young lady, who looked a trifle vexed. Don't you remember that Spring? You must, because the young potatoes were so small.)

Your protégé, Peter, goes on famously. He's a broth of a boy, not a pickle, like many lads of his age, and yet he won't stand being sauced, as he calls it. He and I nearly got parted at the station, for the crowd was very great after the races—in fact, a regular jam. It rained hard when we reached Sandwich, and I got dripping wet, for I had forgotten my waterproof, and there was not a cab to be had. But now the weather has changed again, and we are half baked. A broiling sun and not a puff of wind.

There was no one in the train I knew. Some small fry stuffing buns all the way, and opposite me a girl who had her hair crimped just like yours, and wore exactly the same sort of scalloped jacket. A raw young man with her, evidently quite spooney; and they larded their talk with rather too many "loves" and "dears" for my taste, for you know we are never tender in public. It grated so on my ear, that at last I made some harmless joke to try and stop it, but mademoiselle, who spoke in that mincing way you detest, turtled up, so I held my tongue all the rest of the way, and amused myself with looking at your carte, and concocting one of my own for our great dinner on the 29th, for the chef has gone to Spithead, and left all to me. And now, my duck, not to mince matters, when I have got that off my mind (if the dinner is only as well dressed as you, it will do), you must fix the day. I am quite unsettled. I cannot concentrate my thoughts on my gravies as I ought, and my desserts are anything but meritorious. All your fault, miss. You are as slippery as an eel. I must have it all arranged when I come up to the City next week. I have some business in the Poultry, but shall slip away as soon as I can, and bring your mother the potted grouse and chutney. ("Cunning man," I hear you say, "he wants to curry favour with mamma.") And you will do what I ask? Where shall we go for our wedding trip?—Strasbourg, Turkey, Cayenne, Westphalia, Worcestershire? Perhaps, I think most of coming back to the little house which I know somebody will always keep in apple-pie order, and of covers for two; and I shall admire the pretty filbert-nails while she peels my nuts, and we will both give up our flirtations, mere entremets, and sit down soberly to enjoy that substantial pièce de résistance—Matrimony. Do you like the menu? Then, my lamb, say "yes" to

Your own

Alfred.

P.S.—I know my temper is rather short, but then think of my crust! And it speaks well for me that I would rather be roasted fifty times than buttered once. I do hate flummery, certainly.

She. "It's no use bothering me, Jack. I shall marry whom I please."

He. "That's all I'm asking you to do, my dear. You please me well enough!"

AN UNFORESEEN MATRIMONIAL CONTINGENCY

Angelina. "Did you ever see anything so wonderful as the likeness between old Mr. and Mrs. Bellamy, Edwin? One would think they were brother and sister, instead of husband and wife!"

Edwin. "Married people always grow like each other in time, darling. It's very touching and beautiful to behold!"

Angelina (not without anxiety). "Dear me! And is it invariably the case, my love?"

The Widow's Intended. "Well, Tommy, has your mother told you of my good fortune."

Tommy. "No. She only said she was going to marry you!"

Young Muddleigh, who has been out buying underwear for his personal use, purchases at the same establishment some flowers for his ladye-love—leaving a note to be enclosed. Imagine Young Muddleigh's horror, on returning to dress, to discover that the underwear had been sent with the note, and the flowers to him! Muddleigh discovered, repeating slowly to himself the contents of the note:—"Please wear these this evening, for my sake!"

"IS IT A FAILURE?"

Mamma (their last unmarried daughter having just accepted an offer). "Well, George, now the girls are all happily settled, I think we may consider ourselves fortunate, and that marriage isn't——"

Papa (a pessimist). "Um—'don't know! Four families to keep 'stead of one!"

SO FRIVOLOUS!

Wife. "Solomon, I have a bone to pick with you."

Solomon (flippantly) "With pleasure, my dear, so long as it's a funny bone!"

"HUSBANDS IN WAITING"

Stout Wife. "I shall never get through here, James. If you were half a man, you would lift me over!"

Husband. "If you were half a woman, my dear, it would be easier!"

"Was he very much cast down after he'd spoken to papa?"

"Yes. Three flights of stairs!"

"SCORED"

Little Wife. "Now, Fred dear, I'm ready."

Lazy Husband. "I'm awfully sorry, dear; but I must stay in, as I'm expecting a friend every minute."

Little Wife (sarcastically). "A friend every minute! Heavens, Fred! What a crowd of friends you'll have by the end of the day!"

DECIDEDLY PLEASANT

Genial Youth. "I say, Gubby, old chap, is this really true about your going to marry my sister Edie?"

Gubbins. "Yes, Tommy. It's all settled. But why do you ask?"

G. Y. "Oh! only because I shall have such a jolly slack time now! You know I've pulled off nearly all her engagements so far, only you're the first one who's been a real stayer!!"

He. "The joke was, both these girls were hopelessly in love with me, and I made them madly jealous of each other."

She. "I wonder you had the face to do it, Mr. Sparkins!"

"WE FELL OUT, MY WIFE AND I"

He. "That's absurd! Do you think I'm as big a fool as I look?"

She. "I think that if you aren't, you have a great deal to be thankful for!"

SUCH AN EXAMPLE

Wife (to husband, who has barked his shins violently against the bed, and is muttering something to himself). "Oh, Jack, how can you! Supposing baby were to hear you!"

She (after they have walked three miles without a word being spoken). "Aw say, John, tha'art very quoiet. Has nowt fur to say?"

He. "What mun aw say? Aw dunno know."

She. "Say that tha loves me."

He. "It's a'reet sayin' aw love thee, but aw dunno loike tellin' loies!"

Partner of his Joys (who has superintended the removal). "Well, dear, you haven't said how you like the new flat!"